


Intermezzo

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Intermezzo, Lord M - Freeform, Melbourne, Victoria - Freeform, William Lamb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 99,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: Follows Adagio - Summer/Autumn 1846





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  _ *** See journal transcripts end of chapter - R**_

 

_[Speak softly, love](https://youtu.be/D-wPdFc33ww) and hold me warm against your heart_

_I feel your words, the tender trembling moments start_

_We're in a world, our very own_

_Sharing a love that only few have ever known_

_Wine-colored days warmed by the sun_

_Deep velvet nights when we are one_

_Speak softly, love so no one hears us but the sky_

_The vows of love we make will live until we die_

_My life is yours and all because_

_You came into my world with love so softly love_

_Wine-colored days warmed by the sun_

_Deep velvet nights when we are one_

_Speak softly, love so no one hears us but the sky_

_The vows of love we make will live until we die_

_My life is yours and all because_

_You came into my world with love so softly love_

 

Victoria saw Melbourne waiting at the head of the grand staircase, his back turned in her direction. The great house appeared empty and abandoned for one long beat of time, dust motes dancing in the slanting orange rays of summer sunset. She rarely had the opportunity to look her fill unobserved at that dear, oh-so-familiar form and paused, waiting for the spell to be broken.

He was taller than average, and the span of his shoulders broad as though he were an athlete or laborer – nothing could be further from the truth, and the very notion of William engaging in sport twisted her lips into a fond grin – under a summer weight evening coat of black superfine. Lord M made a striking figure. _For his age_ might have been expected to qualify such observation, but applied to him would have been superfluous. As the famous stage actress Fanny Kemble once observed, Melbourne was _the most comely of creatures_. As though he sensed her presence – _of course he did_ – Melbourne roused himself from reverie with an imperceptible shake of that leonine head.

According to the unspoken rules of polite society, it would not do for any high-ranking husband and wife to be caught in a public display of affection. When a lady was observed exchanging intimacies with a gentleman other than her husband, it earned no more than a nod and a wink while such conduct in married persons would be sneered at as pathetically bourgeoise, verging on _middle class_. Deciding on a whim to risk discovery, Victoria embraced him from behind, laying her cheek against his back. She loved the way he felt, solid and warm, a bulwark of strength.

"You were gone so long I feared you had abandoned me to my own devices," he said, his own voice so low Victoria knew he did not wish to be overheard. A house of this size took a veritable army to run, and Devonshire was not dependent on Parliamentary largesse.

"I wanted to jot down my first impressions while they were fresh," Victoria explained. "Seeing the house brought back memories of my first visit." She hesitated overlong, so that he looked down curiously. "And our first meeting. Do you remember?"

Then it was his turn to pause, and Victoria blushed at her own foolishness. Why should a few moments spent with a child so long ago have made an impression on _him_? Gentlemen did not in general place a great deal of worth on such silly sentimentality, but this was _Lord M_ and she wavered, wondering if she should share how deeply affected she had been.

"Indeed I do," Melbourne finally said lightly. "You were – 12? 13? I am surprised that you recall. I doubt I made much of an impression, just one more stodgy old man."

Victoria forced a small laugh, pushing back her disappointment at such a vague response.

"How do I look?" she asked brightly.

Her skirts were not as full as had once been considered fashionable. She herself had, to her own surprise, changed the fashion. Victoria considered herself too short to show to advantage in the excessively wide skirts, stiffened by multiple layers of petticoat. _I look like a dumpling, and quite roly poly._ When she'd said as much to Lord M he had said wear  _what you like. Where you lead, the rest will follow_. To Victoria's surprise, even such fashion plates as Harriet Sutherland and Wilhelmina Dalmeny adopted a more natural silhouette and soon enough the Paris dressmakers declared hooped skirts passé, more than a single underskirt priggish.

Melbourne's gaze was so warm that Victoria imagined she could feel it, caressing her bare shoulders, following the line of her collarbone and lingering in the hollow there as a kiss might.

"You are lovely, Victoria. And you are mine." She was delighted by the possessive intensity of his voice, slightly hoarse on the last word.

"Thank you, Lord M. And you are…" _Handsome_ was inadequate, and _beautiful_ too intimate for the circumstance. _Divine_ would be schoolgirl hyperbole. "-very fine," she finished, raising his hand to her lips to press a kiss on his knuckles.

"I had hoped we could see Liam for a few minutes before going down," she murmured, laying her gloved hand on Melbourne's forearm.

"While I waited for you I stepped in. The excitement of the train ride took its toll and he got into bed without a fuss."

The Princess Royale had gone off to stay with Lord and Lady Ashley. Miny, the eldest of Lord M's nieces, was the mother of several girls near in age to Lily, who liked nothing better than the free-and-easy atmosphere of the Shaftesbury.

Liam had traveled with them on this visit to Chatsworth. They would go next to Melbourne Hall to visit Fred and Adine, and even at a weekend house party as grand as those which the Bachelor Duke hosted, no one would dare complain. He _was_ the Prince of Wales, Lord M had said lightly when Victoria protested the propriety.

"We will be away from them for a whole month in August, darling. Do allow him to accompany us to Chatsworth."

"Of course you are right, my love. He is not yet invested Prince of Wales…but he _is_ your son. You don't need my permission."

They travelled by rail, and what they saved in time – for the speed of a locomotive was truly amazing – they paid for enduring the horrible stench and noise. Liam was enthralled. He had somehow developed Albert's passion for all things mechanical. Melbourne valiantly satisfied the child's excited requests to ride in the engine car and learn how the braking system worked. What he knew was superficial, and the result of reading more than 200 bills passed by Parliament to establish new railroad companies, but the engineers patiently answered every question the boy had. Melbourne had done no more than echo some technical phrase to maintain his standing in Liam's eyes.

Melbourne extended his arm, and together they descended the grand staircase.

"Her Majesty Queen Victoria and His Grace the Duke of Melbourne."

Conversation stopped and all eyes turned towards them. Devonshire walked with them down the receiving line and formally presented the twenty-odd guests he had assembled.

Familiar faces all, Victoria was able to find a few words for each. That had come easier with time, as Lord M once assured her it would. Melbourne's ease of manner had been her example, but it was his gentle, unwavering support which cracked the chrysalis and allowed a poised and confident woman to emerge. Where she had once relied upon stiff Teutonic formality to hide her fear of ridicule, Victoria now moved gracefully down the row of lords and ladies. If she did not precisely _charm_ , neither was there any awkward silence or embarrassingly trite recitation. She asked after an elderly mother, complimented a jewel, a gown and a horse with perfect sincerity, remarked upon some memorable phrase in a recent speech to the House.

Melbourne walked several paces behind her. His hearty laughter rang out from time to time and the sound of his voice was enough to soften her features, so that more than one noble lady would remark later that the queen grew lovelier as she aged.

Their host apologized for the simple fare – 12 courses only, North Sea lobster stuffed with crabmeat the pièce de résistance – and promised an early evening, out of consideration for the fatigue of travel.

After dinner, Devonshire showed his guests to a long terrace overlooking the Emperor Fountain and reflecting pool. Small round wrought iron tables and comfortably cushioned chairs had been arranged over an impromptu stage. Victoria was escorted by Cavendish on one arm and the Duke of Salisbury on the other, whilst Lord M gave his arm to the Duchess of Leeds.

Victoria dimly recalled that lady was an illegitimate half-sister to Caro, a family connection which reassured her that he was in safe hands. If his long acquaintance with Lady Emma Stewart made her unobjectionable, the slow-eyed beauty who secured a seat on Melbourne's other hand bore watching. Miss Catherine Hayes, the celebrated opera singer, was a vivacious Irishwoman only a few years older than Victoria. Her dark good looks were animated by a certain _presence_ and undeniable charisma, and it was that more than her voluptuous figure and pouting, seductive mouth which would appeal to William. Not that he would falter, Victoria told herself hastily, but _opera singers_ were possessed of famously loose morals _._

She was there as a guest, but the Duke informed his guests that she had graciously agreed to perform for them. Since a pianoforte had been positioned on the terrace, and musicians carrying stringed instruments materialized on cue, Victoria concluded that the performance was no mere nod to hospitality.

Miss Catherine Hayes sang the parts she had performed as Lucia di Lammermoor and a piece from Verdi's new opera. Victoria joined in the applause, moved by the woman's stirring, emotional performance. When her audience clamored for more, she swept an exaggerated curtsy and returned to her seat instead.

"What did you think, ma'am?" William Cavendish asked, during a brief intermission. "She is considered the finest in a generation."

"How did you persuade her to leave the stage and travel to entertain us?" Victoria questioned. "You must have a special influence with the lady."

"It took no persuasion beyond £1,000 pounds for the weekend, and a chance to perform for the Queen, which will undoubtedly appear on her next show bill."

"Then I will excuse you, so you can remind her to whom she owes her gratitude for the opportunity," Victoria said drily. Cavendish followed the direction of her gaze and lifted his chin to signify understanding. Together they watched the singer and Lord Melbourne, engrossed in animated conversation. The Duke raised Victoria's hands to his lips and winked, then murmured a lavish compliment which made her blush and laugh.  

When she glanced toward the singer again, Victoria saw the dark head bent attentively toward her own husband, who was speaking in a lively, engaging manner. Melbourne held his head just so, slightly tilted, and something about the set of his handsome features told her he was engaging in his own light flirtation. It irked her, but not unduly. Lord M was an attractive man, and if not entirely disinterested in female beauty, he could be counted upon to respond favorably to those who displayed their own admiration for _him_. That, and his interest would always be captured by very striking, distinct personalities. Miss Hayes certainly was that.

"I will give you one more song, then," the Irishwoman trilled suddenly, her speaking voice a surprising contralto. "Your Majesty, especially for you, _Kathleen Mavourneen_." She had already risen and turned back to hand her champagne flute to Lord Melbourne. Quite ostentatiously, she ran her long talon-like nails down the back of his hand before striding to the center of the terrace.

**

Victoria awoke with a jolt. Before she reached for him she knew that her husband was absent from their bed. She fumbled, searching for her discarded night dress in the dark.

She had retired alone, as had the other ladies in their party. _All_ the ladies? Victoria suddenly wondered. Devonshire had invited the gentlemen to join him for a nightcap, excusing their wives in deference to their more delicate constitution. Victoria had been undressed and already in bed when she heard her husband's valet stir in the dressing room. When she'd stepped through the doorway Melbourne was removing his stockings as Baines industriously brushed the tailcoat he had worn. He had glanced up and met her eyes in the dressing table mirror, then dismissed his valet and followed her into the bedchamber.

"You waited up for me," he had murmured, his voice rough as though from too much talking – and cigars, Victoria noted with a disapproving sniff.

"Did Lord Devonshire arrange for a private recital?" she asked tartly. Melbourne's amused, even gratified expression irked her.

"'O beware, my lady, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on,'" he recited, his near-hoarse voice cracking and sending a shiver of desire up Victoria's spine.

"Do you imply that I should be jealous?"

"I merely acknowledge the compliment, ma'am," Melbourne drawled.

Victoria's immediate reaction was to be offended, but her body insisted otherwise. Still, she did not lay aside her ire, enjoying the prickling _frisson_ of excitement at their playful duel. Melbourne continued to banter, moving forward as he did so until she found herself backed against the wall.

Afterward, as she lay in his arms, Melbourne twisted her tangled hair into a coil and blew gently on her neck, damp with perspiration. Victoria made a little mewl of contentment and drifted into sleep.

Victoria replayed their encounter in her mind as interminable minutes passed. His urgency had been contagious, but that was nothing new. They were so attuned to one another that their intimacy was magnified, Victoria responding as much or more to his passion as her own. The delicious variety of their union was immensely satisfying, sometimes tender, sometimes rough and demanding, sometimes slow and languid, at other times a raging inferno. If Melbourne led and Victoria followed, as in a waltz, he was an exquisitely sensitive and attentive partner in both, reading and responding to her so that it seemed he knew what she needed before she did.

She had fallen asleep to the familiar touch of his hand stroking her hair. Had it all been a ruse? Had he lulled her to sleep so that he could go to that opera singer? Everyone knew that singers were no better than stage actresses; why, even Uncle Leopold kept one as his mistress, and her other uncles had set up a whole succession of such disreputable creatures. Had William finally succumbed to the expectation he take a mistress? Would he do so right under her nose?

Victoria climbed out of bed and paced the floor, her anger rising with every passing minute. _I will not search for him; I won't; I can't. I would be a laughingstock_. _I will keep my dignity if I have lost all else_ , she told herself, even as her stomach clenched in a violent spasm, heartache and fury vying for precedence.

"Oh, William, how could you?!" she wailed into the darkness.

The well-oiled latch barely made a sound when the door opened.

Victoria spun around and saw him in the doorway. He had on his dark silk dressing gown on with trousers underneath. It took her a moment to register what she was seeing. Melbourne's arms were full of their child. Liam's eyes were only half-open, and his face was damp and flushed.

"Are you ill, darling?" Melbourne's voice was gruff yet tender; he whispered his words against the soft dark curls of his son's head. "I will put him to bed and then see to you."

Victoria watched as he laid the boy in their bed, saw his big hand cup Liam's cheek and flick tears away with his thumb. Then he bent and kissed him and pulled the covers up.

"I woke up and you were gone," Victoria whispered finally. "I was all alone."

Her temper flared at Melbourne's reaction. "You're  _laughing_ at me." 

"You sound so very much like Liam," he whispered. "He woke up alone in a strange place too, and called out for me. He had worked himself into quite a state by the time I went to him. That silly chit we brought had gone off and left him alone." The fierce, tender, protective love of a father for his child humbled Victoria. She was nearly overcome, grateful beyond words that such a man had allowed her to bear his children.

"I thought – " she stopped, suddenly not wanting to give voice to the ugly imaginings which had tormented her. Somehow, even speaking such baseless concern aloud would tarnish the perfect purity of the moment.

He was _not_ any other man; he was not even the man he had once been. He was _her_ Lord M, her wonderful William Lamb. And Victoria felt ashamed of her suspicions. If she could not go so far as to tell herself with absolute certainty he would never do _that_ with another woman – although she desperately hoped he would not, no more than she could entertain the thought of their intimacy, those very private acts, being replicated with anyone else – she knew without a doubt that he would never hurt or humiliate her in the doing, never flaunt his infidelity as other men did.

"It doesn't matter, darling. As you say, I woke up frightened and alone and reacted like a child. Shall we have him sleep here?"

"Can we? Do you mind? Look, he's at peace already. Perhaps if we had brought Lehzen, but –"

Victoria pushed back the boy’s silky curls, so like his father’s, and gently kissed his forehead. Then she raised a hand and stroked William's cheek.

"Good night, Lord M," she whispered in the darkness.

"Good night, my darling," Melbourne replied, yawning through the words.

* * *

**Journal**  
**12 June 1846**

_Seeing Chatsworth once more, that magnificent monument to all that is beautiful and grand, was even more thrilling than the first time I came. Then I was new and raw, unformed, on the way to becoming but incomplete. Now I am whole, in a way I would never have been without William Lamb._

_When the Duke of Devonshire invited Mama and me to his country home in October of 1832, I am sure he did not know how momentous an impression that visit would make. Or perhaps he did, and that was the point. The Duke and his friends were all Whigs and of course the world knew how violently opposed to their party the Crown had always been. Every care was taken for my comfort and amusement and even Mama was well enough pleased that she let her guard down so I had a taste of freedom. Devonshire and his friends courted Mama, realizing as my dear Uncle King did not, the need to flatter and ingratiate themselves with my only parent._

  
_My lessons served me well so that I knew each lord and lady by name and reputation. Our host William Cavendish - his friends called him Hart but when he invited me to do the same Mama's quick frown was all I needed to see - was a 'confirmed bachelor'. The ladies all appeared to like him quite a lot and he was well-enough looking for a man of his age. Mama's ladies whispered of lost love, the 'bachelor Duke' heartbroken when the only girl he loved chose another man. This was the first time but certainly not the last I heard her name spoken in such a tone. Lady Caroline Lamb._

_I enjoyed myself tremendously during that visit to Chatsworth. So many firsts! My first adult dinner party, my first opportunity to practice drawing room skills, and the first time I was permitted to converse with adults unsupervised by Mama. Looking back, I can see Devonshire and his cronies arranged it all very cunningly, taking full advantage of Mama's hunger to be in seen in her own right. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic. Mama was a doting parent, jealous of her influence and determined to maintain control over me._

_Heir presumptive I might have been, yet I was only thirteen and small for my age, well-educated but unaccustomed to the free and easy ways in a great Whig country house. Each viscount, earl, marquess and minister said all that was proper to a girl of my age, with that ponderous condescending levity no child of even moderate intelligence finds amusing. I responded to each with carefully carefully rehearsed replies designed to show off my knowledge._

_Politicians, Mama had sniffed, when the Prime Minister and his Home Secretary were announced. The Earl Grey was our current Prime Minister, head of the first fully Whig government in recent memory. Mama was not political, but it was her habit to like whatever Uncle King loathed and so she pretended enthusiasm for the Reform Bill and put on a great show of admiration for these ministers._

_Charles Grey was a slender gentleman with thin lips and neat, restrained movements. His eyes were not unkind when he was presented to me, but their expression was distant and detached. He made some bland remark and I responded in kind, and then he moved on to greet Mama._

_I'm sure it will seem as if the past is informed by the present, but that is not the case. I did not understand, and certainly recorded nothing in the daily diary Lehzen and Mama both scrutinized, but when I raised my eyes to greet the gentleman bowing before me I was transfixed. In the last century a German physician named Franz Mesmer wrote that people can be linked together by an irresistible internal force. Certainly not in any womanly way, what I now understand to be called romantic or sexual, but something more ancient and elemental. Like metal filings to a magnet, moths to a flame – trite analogies are unworthy and cheapen what I am trying to say – he was suddenly there and the world had changed._

_I recall my confusion, wondering whether I had met him before, perhaps as an infant, that he seemed so familiar. A ridiculous notion flashed through my mind – could this be the father I had heard so much about? Why else would it feel as though I had been waiting for him to appear, pining? I had difficulty swallowing and thought I might gasp for air. I closed my mouth with a pop and looked into the face of William Lamb._ _I had no suspicion then, of course, what our future would hold._

_Enough of dwelling in the past! My darling will be wondering what keeps me, and I mean to engrave in my memory every minute of every hour of every day we share. -- VR_

**William Lamb's Commonplace Book entry**  
**Chatsworth House 21 Oct 1832**

_Hart had us down to meet HRH Princess Alexandrina and the Duchess. The child has none of her mother’s looks, a plain little miss without a spark of life in her. She could do worse than learn from her mother how to make herself pleasing in company but there’s time for that. I almost felt sorry for the poor little thing, agog in the drawing room, speechless and staring except when she parrots her lessons._

_The Duchess of Kent has charm and looks but is far too hungry in her manner – hungry for honor and approbation and jealous of her influence over the child. More fool her, to exile herself from her brother-in-law’s Court when she needs friends to make her life easy. Those Germans are ever stubborn, even to their own disadvantage._

_Willie descended as soon as we went through, Georgie not far behind her. That ship has sailed, more’s the pity. Bessie has secured an apartment in London in hopes that I will make her an offer I suppose. I fear I am going to disappointment her. Perhaps I should heed Em’s advice and concentrate on my career. Petticoats have err been the cause of my distress._

_PS_

_Encountered the child once more, seated by herself in the garden. Chatted her up – what else could I do? – and won a smile. She is no beauty yet -doesn’t need to be for her station in life - but there is something about her that makes me think in a few years she might surprise us all. Time will tell. I am no courtier and God knows I have little interest in schoolroom chits. This one lacks even the saucy spice of Susan or Lilly Branden, and yet there is something about the little princess which intrigues me._


	2. Chapter 2

Melbourne took his ease, sublimely content with himself, his surroundings and the creature comfort provided by a chair in the shade. Fair weather and mild air redolent of summer in the country, soft breeze caressing his face and the pleasant hum of conversation to remind him he was not alone lent themselves to a mood of perfect tranquility.

He had risen at first light, painfully early for a man of his habits. The promising scent of coffee and bacon sandwiches wafted from the gun room, where a few other of Hart's old cronies were already breaking their fast. Chatsworth offered excellent fly fishing and Melbourne needed little persuasion to rise at such an ungodly hour and abandon the comfort of his bed. The river keeper had arrived to lead them through the park and down to the bank of the River Derwent. It was a fine June morning, so early the dew had not yet dried and mist hovered over the water's surface. Otherwise no passionate sportsman, Melbourne had discovered the joys of angling for trout on a dry fly quite by accident. He found its meditative precision exactly suited his temperament.

When apprised of the plan Victoria had only dimpled her amusement with wifely condescension and informed him that she would be glad of the freedom. She would, she announced, find a spot to draw and Liam could accompany her.

Cavendish was an excellent host and various schemes for the entertainment of his guests were on offer. A somewhat younger crowd had joined the party, Melbourne saw as he climbed the bank with his fellow fishermen when the midday sun suggested the prospect of luncheon.

They found a pretty scene in the meadow. Blankets and cushions had been spread out where the grass had been scythed, and a smattering of wicker chairs set under the shade of chestnut trees. A long white canvas campaign tent covered tables set with crystal and china. A simple picnic lunch, the Duke modestly called it. Melbourne noted the number of courses under domed covers, cold lobster and sliced ham, salads and fruit ices, champagne, ratafia and lemonade.

Melbourne scanned the array of bright summer parasols, idly looking for Victoria. Some half-a-dozen young gentlemen were preparing for a footrace, neck cloths cast aside, sleeves rolled, and coats abandoned in an untidy heap, strutting like roosters while pretending to ignore the ladies ready to cheer on their favorite. In another direction, some of the older guests played a more sedate game of _rouët_.

Such a country house party had been a staple of the social season for generations, and perfectly exemplified the beauty of English life. The preservation of such traditions had informed every decision in Melbourne's political career. England had been spared the tawdry excesses of reform and revolution which had swept the Continent, in no small part because he had taken on the difficult and sometimes painful task of siphoning off the worst impulses toward reform. _I was hated by both sides at times, Tory and Whig in agreement on nothing else, but scorn for my centrist moderation._ _Funny how compromise was considered failure, when it was only ever to maintain our peace and prosperity, and above all this way of life._

Melbourne had impatiently pushed those reflections aside. Nothing would more surely age him than a wandering mind forever looking backward. He saw a sweetly familiar profile and watched Victoria. She stood amid a cluster of other girls and women, their attention on the men running hard to finish first. Her own expression was animated, her demeanor vivacious as she cheered along with the rest. Melbourne debated joining her and decided against it. His presence would only put a damper on the exuberance of Victoria and her companions. He went instead to find a place in the shade.

When she found him, Melbourne feigned sleep and lazily peered up at her. On impulse she leaned over and lightly kissed his lips. He studied her face closely, gratified at what he saw. There were no shadows in that open expression, no sign of strain on her pretty features. She was truly happy, he thought, and he had played a part in that.

"To the victor go the spoils, they say," a jolly voice boomed behind her. Melbourne recognized the tall, athletic figure as that of the runner for whom Victoria had cheered.

"You won handily, my lord," Victoria's tone cool, her voice sweet to his ear. Melbourne pushed himself out of his chair. Etiquette did not require him to rise, but masculine pride prompted him. He smiled vaguely, wishing he could act the curmudgeon, growl and send the intruder on his way.

"I believe you promised me a token for my victory, madame. One of your ribbons?"

 _Too familiar by half,_ Melbourne thought. And yet it was the sort of harmless banter to which no husband could take offense, without giving rise to the sort of pitying looks he recalled all too well. Nor would he deprive her of such a simple compliment. Victoria looked up at him, her pretty face pinkening with confusion and a shadow of doubt.

 _Utterly guileless_ , he thought tenderly. _Still unaccustomed to harmless flirtation. Any other gently-reared female of her age and station would have perfected the art of coquetry._ Melbourne was prepared to be a tolerant husband, within reason. Victoria was equally liable to mistake harmless gallantry for lèse-majesté or give unwitting encouragement by the surprised and almost-childish pleasure she took in genuine compliments.

"Might I congratulate you on a race well run, Mr.--? I'm sorry; I do not think I've made your acquaintance." Melbourne made his voice gentle, almost purring with bon homie.

"Your Grace, Hugh George Cholmondeley at your service." Melbourne nodded absently, wondering why the fellow was still there. "Tom Cholmondeley is my father."

That helpful postscript was enough to prompt Melbourne's dim recollection of a foolish handsome clothes horse. Thomas Cholmondeley had bought himself a peerage in '21 for £5000 and considered it a bargain at the price. The going rate had been £1200. The man was an idiot eager to impress.

"Her Majesty bet on me and won," Sir Hugh said, beaming down at Victoria fatuously.

Victoria shifted imperceptibly nearer to Melbourne, and he felt sorry that her innocent enjoyment should be dimmed on his account.

"Well, my darling, Lord Cholmondeley has earned his reward. May I -?" Melbourne delicately loosened a knot in one of the blue satin ribbons decorating the wide-brimmed hat Victoria wore. It was long enough – barely – to fasten in a loop. He gave it to her and nodded encouragingly. Standing on tiptoes while the young man bent his sandy head, she gingerly placed the ribbon around his neck.

"And now, if you will excuse us, sir, I will take Her Majesty to luncheon. I'm sure we will meet again later."

In the face of such clear dismissal, Victoria's runner sauntered away. As soon as they were alone Victoria spun to face him, her expression troubled.

"William, I-"

"No," Melbourne said firmly, grasping her chin. "Just…no. " He made his voice less stern, fearful she might mistake his meaning. "I am pleased you found amusement this morning. Do you think me so selfish that I would prefer you pining away, or sitting in the dowagers' corner criticizing the manners and morals of the young? You _are_ a young woman, and I would have you just as you were, laughing in the sun with others your age."

Victoria's frown cleared, and her eyes shone with devotion. She raised a hand to stroke his cheek and Melbourne felt a lump in his own throat at the exquisite tenderness of her touch.

"I adore you, Lord M," she whispered, the words carried on her breath.

Liam scampered into the tent and threw himself into Melbourne's arms with some of his absent sister's disinhibition.

"Do you know who that is?" Victoire murmured in Victoria's ear, her own voice heavy with derision. Melbourne followed the direction of his mother-in-law's scandalized stare, a wan pretty woman of middle age who had accompanied Liam and now sat on Melbourne's far side. He smiled warmly at her, making sure the dowager duchess saw.

"Caroline, how good to see you? Your Highness, may I present Lady Caroline Lamb? She was once married to my youngest brother and has been living in Nice. Caroline, the Duchess of Kent."

Victoria smiled sweetly, but not before giving her mother a cautionary glance. Victoire might pretend to a haughty disdain for the irregularities of such family ties in the English aristocracy, but Melbourne counted on her to conduct herself with propriety. Still, he held his breath until the Dowager Duchess's thin lips curved into the semblance of a smile.

"Hart brought me back. He hoped we could count on your good will. Harryo disapproves, of course…"

Caroline was the child of the 5th Duke of Devonshire, unfortunately born to Lady Elizabeth Foster while Georgiana – G, they called her, his mother's close friend – was still alive. Illegitimacy was common enough that only lip service was paid to the resultant scandal, and Melbourne personally gave the Duke more credit than he did poor Susan's natural parents. The ménage à trois between Hart's father, his mother and his mother's dearest friend Lady Elizabeth was conducted so openly, and the Devonshire family so influential, that it was almost accepted. Lady Melbourne welcomed the marriage to her youngest son, by all accounts a love match, and regarded this Caroline more fondly than she had the other.

His erstwhile sister-in-law turned her attention to Liam with all the intensity of a childless woman, and making it clear they were already soon fast friends. Melbourne was careful to include Victoire in the remarks he addressed to Victoria, and the dowager swiftly abandoned any attempt to disparage their host's half-sister.

Melbourne had entertained vain hope that his energy might be restored by food alone, but when the covers were cleared he was grateful for the opportunity to withdraw. Some of the younger guests would go further afield, hunting wildflower specimens to draw or to press. He was glad of it when Victoria chose to go with him to the house.

"Liam is doing so well on his own. I think he comes out of his shell when Lily is not at hand to overshadow him." Melbourne squinted through one eyelid, debating whether a response was obligatory. He had already shed shoes and coat and was sprawled on the bed.

Victoria, stripped to pink satin undergarments, lay on her stomach beside him. Propped on elbows in a pose that displayed her breasts to advantage, she persisted in chattering with restless energy. Melbourne wanted very much to sleep.

" _I am not entirely satisfied with the sketch I made this morning. Perhaps when I've filled the color in_ … _catch any fish..I'll wear the dark green watered silk…your ivory waistcoat will look very smart_ …

Exasperated, he humphed and rolled her onto her back, pinning her in place with a leg slung over her thighs.

"Sleep," he growled. "Else I will toss you out into the corridor and lock the door."

Victoria complacently nestled her head into the hollow under his chin, so her silky hair tickled his nose with every exhalation. He was poised at the precipice, ready to sink into sleep, when he felt a delicate tug at the hem of his shirt.

When he awakened much later the room was warm and stuffy. Melbourne stumbled to the window and threw open the sash, letting in a blessedly cool late afternoon breeze. Victoria was gone, the only sign of her a crumbled scrap of lace-trimmed silk peeking out from under the bedside table. He retrieved it and stared, his mind blank, senses all in a blur. Then he decided that wherever Victoria had gone, she must return to dress for dinner. In the meantime, he would take his journal and meander down to the folly.

**

She came and went, stealing a few precious moments with him before allowing herself to be drawn into another activity. The Chatsworth hospitality was legendary, with elaborately planned entertainments on offer and artists mingling with the Duke's noble guests. It would not have been normal for a wife, any wife, to cling too closely to her husband, or a husband to keep his wife at his side.

Melbourne thought that he rather liked the net effect of having to anticipate their encounters; it lent a certain zest to the hours. Stolen kisses and naughty caresses, even the way in which Victoria's words tumbled out in her eagerness to recount what she'd said and done and her habit of looking up hopefully under her lashes for his approval, made their weekend in Derbyshire a surprisingly pleasant interlude.

One of the few extended periods they shared alone and away from the eyes of others, was when Victoria returned to bathe and change for dinner and dancing. She came into the dressing room they shared, with the news that Frederick and Alexandrine had arrived.

"Adine asked to dine with Liam," Victoria laughed, dimpling. "Fred put his foot down but I fear she and Caroline will come to blows over our son's favor."

Her dresser hurried behind, picking up the articles of clothing the queen discarded, even as Melbourne's valet and his young understudy scrambled to tidy the room. He watched her in the mirror with great affection as she settled herself with every intention of keeping him company while he shaved and dressed.

"To think that once, before our friend Brummel, daily bathing was considered frivolous at best, morally bankrupt at worst," he quipped. "Why, there were even those who suggested it was the cause of George's madness."

Victoria permitted her maid to unbutton her, then sent the servants away and she stepped out of her gown on dainty, high-arched feet and shed her thigh-length chemise. Melbourne had heard her say more than once that stays were a barbaric appliance harmful to one's health; she preferred only a corset and would happily forgo that when circumstances permitted. _Clearly_ , he observed _, today's circumstances were casual enough to permit._ These moments were especially precious to him, reminding him anew of his privileged position in the life of this remarkable creature.

He recalled the early days of their intimacy, when she carefully hid herself from his eyes even after giving herself to him in the dark. It pleased him to see as she was, comfortable with herself in his presence. She lowered herself to her chin in the luxurious plunge bath, filled to capacity from modern faucets, and rather than summon her maid once more, asked him to wash her hair.

Then they were off again, for a pre-dinner game of charades. That evening's dancing was a lively affair, with reels and polkas and quadrilles and English country dance. Victoria favored every gentleman of suitable rank in turn, and returned to him flushed and breathless when the fireworks were announced.

Devonshire had entertained Victoria as Queen once before. On that occasion she had spent a long weekend being fêted with Albert at her side.

"I was horrible to poor Albert, and it was not his fault. But I missed you so, and we had to oretend intimacy for a whole weekend," she confided. "The Duke spared no expense in seeing to our entertainment. He lit the fountains in a rainbow of color and put on a great firework show. I cared for none of it, and only wanted it over so I could return to you."

At the stroke of midnight the music stopped and the dance floor cleared as everyone flocked to the terrace. Timed to coincide with the strawberry moon, the famed Chatsworth fountains were illuminated with color once more and the fireworks burst overhead.

Victoria clutched his hand tightly while they watched, and she stood so close he could feel her warmth through their clothing. But where he expected an expression of wonder and delight, he saw transient melancholy instead.

"I'm sorry, darling, it only reminded me of that other time. I was so cold to poor Albert and it was not his fault. He could do nothing to please me. And now he's gone. It was all such a waste, only to please our families."

Melbourne knew Victoria had grown genuinely fond of her cousin during their brief marriage. She was right, of course; it had not been Albert's fault either, that he was forced to marry for the sake of his father's ambition. Melbourne had grown attached to the boy as well, and did his best to push irrational jealousy out of his mind. Their marriage had been entered into for show only – it was the fundamental reason for his own return to the palace – but he had long wondered _if_.

Many men had a strong preference for their own sex and yet performed their conjugal duties and bred heirs on their wives. Especially very _young_ , virile men, and Albert had certainly been that. The Queen and her consort had separate apartments far apart at Buckingham and Windsor, but on visits like this they shared a bedchamber in order to sustain the illusion. _What if_ \--?

Such speculation was futile. Melbourne bent over Victoria's shoulder to point at the changing hues of the Emperor Fountain and canal. Her expression, when she looked up at him, was the look of love he had hoped to see and all doubt fled.

"I _am_ exhausted, Lord M," she exclaimed later, when she slid her bare feet under the sheets.

"As you should be, ma'am. I had the benefit of a long rest this afternoon, which you did not, and I am worn out."

Victoria looked up at him coquettishly from behind a curtain of hair.

"You fell asleep despite my best efforts, William. You should be well-rested."

He laughed and pushed the hair from her face.

"I am considerably older than you are, ma'am, and lack the stamina of youth." He turned down the gas lamp beside the bed, so that the rich furnishings faded into darkness. "Devonshire spared no expense in redecorating the State apartments on your account. Was it this grand the last time you visited?"

Victoria only shrugged, yawning. "I suppose so. I can't recall."

"Did you stay in this suite? Cavendish converted rooms on the east side of the house into guest bedrooms in the '30s." _Did you both stay in this suite_?  he wanted to ask. _In this bed?_

She settled herself into a comfortable position against his side and burrowed her face into his chest, always a final preliminary before sleep, and as suddenly as the unwanted thoughts had come, they faded again. It occurred to him why his mind was throwing up these distractions. He turned on his side and wrapped his body around hers, holding her so closely she would fall asleep to the beat of his heart. He pressed his lips against her hair and whispered into the darkness.

"Good night, Mrs. Melbourne."

* * *

  _Private_ _Diary_

_14 June 1846_

_A lovely day overall. William retired weary, tired out by a morning spent fishing – so he says; I suspect those flasks they emptied had something to do with it. Mama wanted to keep me after the fireworks, so I could partner her at whist with Lady Derby and the Duchess of Richmond, but I accompanied him to bed, thinking he would want my attentions._

_I sketched this morning, until some of the gentlemen formed the notion of running a race. I was persuaded to bet on the outcome, with several other ladies. It might have been considered fast in other company but was in truth perfectly respectable. Sir Hugh Cholmondeley insisted on covering my bet, wagering a great sum - £1000 – on his prowess, and said I must keep the winnings. He asked only a token, such as the tourney knights of old._

_When I was young and inexperienced, I might have preened myself on Sir Hugh's attention. He does not flirt with me precisely –his ton is too good for such lack of conduct – but I am not indifferent to the warmth of his address. William himself assured me once upon a time that such elegant divertissement is de rigueur amongst fashionable married persons of our class and station. What he did not tell me – what I have taught myself to understand – is that he himself does not find such entanglements at all amusing in his own marriage. Once, I wanted nothing more than to see him display furious passion, or passionate fury, foolishly imagining that would be a measure of my value in his eyes._

_Now I am mature enough to see that my darling does not show strong emotion and is constitutionally unable to sustain the possessive fury of a romantic hero. If he thinks – no matter how misguided – that another man has captured my interest, he will wear that pleasant mask of sardonic amusement and withdraw in plain sight. He did so with Caroline, to her disappointed wrath, and once even with me, on that occasion I commited a near-unforgivable sin. I thank Divine Providence that I have learned early what his first wife never did, that only when our darling Will feels perfectly secure and well-loved can he reveal his heart's truth._

_Since I have never been tempted to stray – my body and mind, heart and soul are William's – my only task is to subdue my own unruly ego. To that end I make my disinterest plain and show only the friendly face of an elder sister to such as Lord Cholmondeley…or Lord Cameron, when he pretends to moon about and pledge undying devotion. They will all see, that for me there is no one but Lord M._

_I struggle only with whether or not to tell William that Sir Hugh has invited himself to Ascot, or even that when he danced with me he invited me to walk with him in the gardens later. If I do tell William, it must be carefully handled so he does not take offense or imagine I hope to stir him to jealousy as I might have when I was young and green._

_I suppose I should return to bed now. My darling sleeps so peacefully! Only – never mind, I have a husband who adores me and I am the most fortunate of women._

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"Did you have any inkling it could be like this?"

Melbourne's glance flickered to his brother's face in an attempt to decipher the question.

They were strolling through a clearing in the Great Park. Overnight a fun fair had been assembled. Public Days were a longstanding Chatsworth tradition. William Cavendish had thrown open the grounds to visitors from as far away as Bakewell and even Chesterfield, who thronged the grounds to mingle with his aristocratic guests and the local gentry.

Lord Melbourne had expressed initial concern for the Queen's safety in such an unvetted crowd, but he did not have the heart to throw a damper on Victoria's enthusiasm or that of their child. The Duke assured him that his tenants and neighborhood gentry would be in the majority and no public notice had been put out. Victoria reminded him of the gypsies she had befriended as a girl of sixteen, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of encountering representatives of this exotic race again.

"I know it's silly to think these might be the same family, but I have never forgotten what an exotic people they are! You must not disapprove, Lord M. Please?"

"Second chances. Pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and all that rubbish. Do you believe fate had this in store all the time?"

Frederick was leaning heavily on his walking stick and grimaced periodically. Melbourne suspected that the pain was more severe than his brother let on. He kept his gait slow, using Liam's short legs as an excuse, but in truth the boy would have run ahead any number of times if he had not been a sensitive, considerate child.

The ethnic gypsies were easily marked by their swarthy skin tone and coarse, curly black hair. Their men wore sweeping mustaches waxed up at the ends, and the women he had seen could have easily done likewise. Not a prepossessing race, by any means, he thought – but judging by the burly laborers catcalling over a canvas curtain, not everyone agreed. They set themselves apart from the Irish itinerant travelers who brought games of skill and fairground treats.

Liam looked wide-eyed at the wonders on display, clutching the hands of his father and uncle. They watched the estate blacksmith wield an oversize mallet, swinging it with force sufficient to send an iron puck up a twenty-foot track to ring the bell at the top.

"Papa, will you try to ring the bell?" Liam asked, echoing the jeering invitation of a vendor.

"Not this time, son," Melbourne shook his head, laughing, and walked on.

"It was a near-run thing, Fred," he said finally, long after Fred posed the question. "And entirely due to Victoria. She has the courage of a lioness and the stubbornness of a mule, while I –"

"While courage has never been your strong suit, Will. And 'stubborn' is a trait which might have done you some good, when you were blamed on all sides for betraying your own party. You don't have to tell me."

Such a summary assessment would have been harsh, coming from anyone but his younger brother. The affectionate respect in Fred's voice took away the sting of his words.

"I spent my career in diplomatic service, where a willingness to compromise is an advantage and no good comes of sticking one's neck out. In politics every man claims to want a firebrand who will lead them to the gates of Hell, rather than a wise, temperate public servant. But we digress. How _did_ that come about? You've never told me."

"And I never will," Melbourne retorted easily. "Suffice it to say, an improbable sequence of events which began with the courage of a remarkable young woman who knew what was in her heart and went after it."

" _Her_ heart? Will, everyone knew the queen was besotted with you – it reached me in Vienna not long after you first kissed hands with her – but I can't say I heard the same of you."

"Give me some credit, Fred. I hid it well; what else could I do, as a gentleman? Moon after a young girl only just made queen who trusted me as her friend and advisor?"

"Do you think some things are preordained, no matter how difficult or improbable the path might seem? You and she are so well-suited, and I believe that is because of the age difference, not in spite of it."

Melbourne considered his brother's statement at some length. _Can I, dare I, say it aloud? If not to Fred, then to whom?_

"I think, I feel, you are right about that. I would be lying if I said that I don't fear infirmity coming before death, so that she must watch me wither away. And I could never deny that I hoard minutes like a miser, now that I have that which makes life infinitely sweet. But…yes, I think that it is the age difference, and my own life experiences, which make us well suited to one another. My darling is strong-willed and strong-minded, and fiercely jealous of her power and position but she could surrender all that and everything that makes her such a splendid creature, if that were the cost of feeling loved and protected. It sounds paradoxical, and perhaps it is, but Victoria is – or could be, in the wrong hands – entirely too vulnerable."

"And you are the least ambitious man I've ever known," Fred said, nodding sagely. He gestured towards a rustic bench set beneath a grape arbor. Melbourne nodded and walked in that direction, stopping only to toss a few shillings down for the fruit ice Liam looked at so longingly.

"It makes me physically ill to think of her trapped in a marriage to someone who was greedy for power and influence, someone whose ego was so fragile that they would seek to extinguish all that is the most splendid in her. So to answer you, whether or not it was preordained that I marry a girl young enough to be my granddaughter, or nearly so, it was _necessary._ So that she can be all that she was meant to be." He laughed, keenly aware of how pretentious and boastful he must sound. "For all the reasons I was considered too weak a husband to control Caro, too malleable a minister, too frivolous and nonchalant, I am exactly the right husband for my  _Gloriana._ "

"You don't speak of your own heart. I know you married for love, but is it because there will always be those who attribute less than honorable motives that you resist every honor? She had to force the dukedom down your throat, and you took no income to support it. You will finally be invested with the Garter next week but that too was long in coming and carries with it no income."

"It'll be an additional expense," Melbourne agreed ruefully. "Back when our marriage was first proposed privately to Peel and Wellington they both made it plain that even with their support, the Commons would agree only it I forswore any claim to the public purse. It was, you will recall, a scandalously short time after the Prince Consort's death. It might have cost her the throne, to present her marriage to a retired politician as _fait accompli_ and we needed all the support we could muster."

"That was then and this is now, William. The country loves you, the government is tolerably well-satisfied with your lack of interference. Why, you've even had a salutary effect on your friends. Devonshire has more than a few token Tories here, lest anyone claim the Queen was fêted at a Whig enclave."

Melbourne only shrugged dismissively, but he wondered whether money concerns lay at the root of Fred's statement. He had given over Melbourne Hall and the estate incomes to Fred and Adine when they came home to England after a long career in the Foreign Service. But the Hall was in constant need of improvements and the revenue realized from rents did little more than cover the essentials. Adine was the daughter of another diplomat, her birth noble but with little in the way of fortune.

He saw the two walking arm-in-arm in the midst of a feminine coterie. They looked like sisters, he thought with pleasure, two radiant young women in the prime of their lives, both petite with dark hair and trim figures.

"We did all right for ourselves," he said contentedly. "Both of us wed to women we adore, who love us."

"And both of them on the sunny side of thirty," Fred added. His own Alexandrine was nearly the same age as Victoria. "Lovely creatures, aren't they? I think your Alexandrina Victoria got the better bargain. Adine is an excellent caregiver, but it galls to have her nurse me and as for you –" he waved his hand impatiently at the gout-swollen limb which gave him such relentless suffering. "While you, dammit, look younger every time I see you. What is the secret to eternal youth?"

"Secret? None which you haven't heard – give up eggs, beefsteaks, ham, brandy and red wine, drink champagne only sparingly, eat green vegetables in abundance…" Melbourne grimaced at the strict reducing diet to which he adhered, by order of the Queen. Such alteration of his previous habits had been a dire necessity after the apoplectic stroke, but feelings of deprivation were mitigated by renewed stamina. Victoria followed the same diet plan in solidarity, and had thus far avoided a tendency to put on weight which her near female relations displayed.

"Adine preaches abstinence constantly. But I ask, what is the point of living if all which makes it pleasurable must be sacrificed in the pursuit?"

" _All_? Surely not." Melbourne cocked a brow, his mouth twisted up in a smirk. Fred's color deepened but before he could respond the tête-à-tête was interrupted by the arrival of their wives.

Melbourne rose and Fred attempted to do likewise. Victoria saw his struggle and seated herself on the bench so he would not feel obligated to stand. A footman in attendance on the Queen folded her parasol and stepped back unobtrusively.

"Oh, it's lovely here in the shade. You found the best spot in the grounds."

The four of them chatted aimlessly for a time, and Melbourne was glad of the opportunity to enjoy Victoria's affectionate friendship with his only surviving brother. Peniston had died first, and they lost George some three years before Victoria ascended the throne. It did not escape him that everything in his life was dated either _before_ or _after_  the pinnacle moment when his life changed forever. It pleased him to contemplate how well his mother and brothers would have liked Victoria. _Liked his proximity to the throne, in Mother's case_ , he always felt obliged to add. But it was not entirely fair. His lady mother had been ambitious for him, even more than for her other children, but she loved him fiercely and would have been glad of his happiness.

"Come with me to the fortune teller's booth, William?" Melbourne became aware that Victoria was addressing him. He looked down at the little face turned up at him so appealingly, her heart-shaped face exquisite within the frame of her bonnet brim. A white satin ribbon held it in place and he pretended to straighten the bow for an excuse to touch her in plain sight.

"Very well, ma'am. Fred, Adine, do you dare join us and see what the future holds?" He dropped his voice a register, so it rang with foreboding.

They both demurred, Fred needing no excuse but a desire to rest his gout-inflamed foot and Adine to remain at his side. Melbourne obliged his wife by offering his arm and strolling toward the far end of Devonshire's imprompu fairground.

No great feat of legerdemain would be required to offer a convincing performance for the Queen of the United Kingdom. Any mediocre showman or woman should be able to conjure enough unobjectionable predictions to satisfy. _I see wealth and fame in your future_ , to either of them; or _you will have two children, a boy and a girl_. Even unlettered itinerants in rural Derbyshire would know enough the sovereign and her husband, the famous – or infamous – statesman-turned-consort. _But would they recognize her?_ he wondered. Their fellow noble guests had made their bows and curtsies at breakfast, and etiquette only required one such formal greeting in a day. A few of the better-off tenants and the local squire had recognized Victoria, even fewer Lord Melbourne, and none of the common people intent on enjoying their Sunday had seemed to do so. She was certainly well-dressed, but not more so than the other wellborn ladies, and his own attire did not set him apart from his peers. _Not like we stroll about in ermine,_ _or the queen goes crowned to a fun fair_. People tend to see what they expect to see.

Past the games, beyond a smoking pit which held a whole hog, past the raucous carnival barkers touting each attraction, the wooden gypsy _vardos_ stood apart. These looked festive, even garish, from afar but close to, Melbourne saw peeling paint and chipped faux gilt. Six sad ponies trudged in a circle, their bridles fastened to a spoked wheel. Village children, those who had no regular acquaintance with even farm horses, gleefully rode the poor listless beasts, kicking at their sides to make them go faster.

Pennants bearing various arcane symbols fluttered in the breeze above a small striped tent. _Tent_ was too generous a term, Melbourne saw, for the table poorly concealed by hangings. An adolescent boy, bare-chested under a black vest, recited a memorized spiel. He was so skinny his ribs showed, and the smudge on his upper lip no more than a pitiable precursor to the flamboyant mustaches of his elders.

Victoria led the way and Melbourne followed. The boy caught his arm and said something in a heavy accent. _Cornish_ , Melbourne thought with a flicker of amusement. _Not Romani or Egyptian or Hindoo._

"Darling, I…do you have any money?" Victoria looked up at him helplessly. Of course she carried no money; he had nearly lost the habit himself, depending on one of the ever-present guards who generally accompanied him.

Melbourne patted his pockets in a futile effort meant more for show. To his surprise he found a few shillings and a crumpled pound note in his pocket. _Baines must have missed that_. _Not like him; the old boy's slipping._ Looking at the boy's ribs, he decided on the pound note, twenty times the advertised rate for a reading.

The swarthy adolescent pulled back the curtain with a flourish. Within the improvised space, a woman unhurriedly stubbed out the cigarillo she had been smoking. Her skin had an amber tint, stretched taut over high cheekbones, and she wore colorful motley that Melbourne suspected was more mummery, a stage costume to satisfy the imaginings of her gullible patrons. Coarse dark hair streaked with grey hung loosely down her back, confined at the crown of her head by a long spangled scarf.

Victoria smiled expectantly as she seated herself, and Melbourne stood behind her, curious despite a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Is there anything special you would like to know?" The woman's voice had the not-unpleasant rasp of an habitual tobacco user.

While Victoria was considering her answer, Melbourne nodded, his own suspicions confirmed.  _The whole thing's a play put on for an audience of one. How clever to begin by asking the client what they want to hear_. He was not dissuaded from his opinion. Whether or not the gypsy seer knew the identity of her client – he suspected the answer was _no_ – she said nothing startling.

 _You have lost someone close to you_. My father, Victoria murmured.  _He is with me now and wants you to know his spirit is watching over you._ _You are pulled in many directions. You have felt torn between duty and desire._  It went on, platitudes which could apply to any who might step through that curtain. Melbourne's gaze flickered between Victoria's face and that of the woman who peered so intently at the display of garishly decorated pasteboard cards she had laid on the tabletop between them. Victoria's expression was sweetly attentive but he thought he saw a tiny twitch in her cheek – sure indication that she was resisting the urge to meet his eyes with a droll look.

"And now you, Lo- William," she said brightly, rising and standing back so he could take the only chair. Melbourne opened his mouth to decline, but the amusement in Victoria's eyes was too tempting. They would laugh about this later.

The Gypsy shuffled her cards and dealt them once more. When they were arranged to her apparent satisfaction she settled her own features into the mask of the stage entertainer and opened her mouth.

"You- " she stopped short, swallowed and began again. "You have…" Melbourne waited impatiently, knowing how it would go. _Yes, I've lost someone close to me._ Who hasn't? _Yes, I sometimes feel torn between duty and desire. For example, duty pushes me to amuse my wife, when desire pulls me to whisk her away and –_

"Beg pardon, sir – this isn't…sometimes the cards…this is –" she snapped her fingers and called out something in her mother tongue to the boy who was loitering outside to snag another mark. He came around the back, rummaged in a box attached to the wagon and produced a bundle of scarves wrapped around a glass orb. Not the finest specimen of Venetian glass, Melbourne thought cynically. Bubbles marred the perfect clarity of what otherwise would have been a pricey piece of crystal.

She set it on the table between them and stared at it fixedly while the boy looked on curiously.

"You – you are an unusual man, sir," the woman said finally, with such profundity that Victoria snorted a small laugh. "Very…interesting. I have rarely seen…"

"Yes, yes he is," Victoria agreed, her voice still gurgling with laughter. The fortune teller spared her an annoyed glance which turned into a glare.

"Do you want to know what I see? If so, this one must not interrupt."

Melbourne raised his brow and Victoria's mouth dropped open with shock. She was not accustomed to being addressed so dismissively – had undoubtedly _never_ been addressed in that manner. To his surprise Victoria accepted the chastisement and only nodded encouragement for the Gypsy to continue.

"I need – I would like to see your hand, if I may. What I see in the orb is not always easy to interpret– it is foggy and difficult to see clearly." Melbourne grew more curious as the woman's well-practiced performance faltered. He extended his hand, palm up, on the table and permitted the woman to adjust its position. Her hands were surprisingly clean, strong with thick veins, the hands of a woman not disused to hard manual labor. He expected to be vaguely repelled by her touch, but her skin was warm and dry and somehow comforting in its strength. Like a good governess, tender but firm, he thought. Not _that_ one, that cantankerous old woman from Jersey who tormented him with boiled mutton and rice pudding and pinches, but another Lehzen.

"You are a fortunate soul." She spoke hesitantly, as though reading from an unfamiliar volume. It was a strange statement, perhaps not enlightening but not a mere truism either. "You have found great love." She inclined her head toward Victoria and winked at him knowingly. "But of course you are thinking, anyone who sees you together would know that. Such a genuine _union_ of two souls is not so very common. You've found each other at exactly the right time. Any earlier and –"

"- and she would have been in the schoolroom,” Melbourne quipped, winking back at the woman. He glanced sidelong at Victoria in time to see her bite her bottom lip, a sure sign she was hiding a smile.

The Gypsy woman, like Victoria, attempted to maintain a stern demeanor but she relented, grinning at him.

"You think I say the same things to everyone, and you are right, I do. But in your case there is something else. I - I rarely see things I do not completely understand, but I feel I must try to tell you."

You understand there are other lives all around us. We all – depending on the choices we make, the paths go different directions. This one leads to…Derby, that to Leeds and that other, the King's Road to London town. You are in each, and so am I, so are we all, but for us to sit here facing each other on this day in June in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-six – that depends on the choices we made from the day of our birth."

The woman was running the tip of her nail across his skin thoughtfully. She pointed to a line, one of those which creased his palm, running from the base of his thumb. He had never noticed before, but it was actually several lines, twisting together in a braided formation.

"This is your lifeline. "See here, you had lessons to learn, suffering to endure, in order to proceed. It fades almost away here – and here – but you prevailed and then, _voila_! You settle into your life's purpose. Plato wrote 'Only those who do not seek power are qualified to hold it' and as little as you wanted it, you have been given great power. But see here, just after your heart line intersects, your lifeline separates so there are two climbing like vines."

"Phooey, you don't understand and you think this is all made-up nonsense. I admit, we most often see no more than careful observation tells us. But for you it is different. The lines cross so strongly for you that you must have seen – sensed, dreamed –  another life. The veil is thin for you, almost transparent. That happens sometimes if one –" she rapped her own temple with one finger. "If you have a brain injury. The seat of the soul, it is not here, but here." She thumped first her breast, then her head.

"My future, ma'am?" he asked politely. "Or are we done? You may keep the money – use it to further your reading of Plato."

"How old are you?" she asked so abruptly that Melbourne answered without thinking.

"There will be another crossroad ahead, an intersection where you can choose, go _this_ way or _that_.  You should not look too closely at the road not taken. You will be looking into the abyss. There are many roads, many paths, but for you _this_ is the right one, the path in which your mind and body, heart and soul found your life's purpose. And after that, you see, there remains only a single lifeline.”

Despite himself, Melbourne had been spellbound by the fortune teller, her message and her formidable presence.   _Stage presence,_ he told himself _._ _Quite a performance._  Despite himself, he wasn't entirely convinced it was all an act.  _She knew about the dreams_ , about that pervasive sense of another place, another _life_ they left in their wake.

Melbourne stood and in doing so pushed back the chair with such force it toppled over. He resisted the urge to look back at the woman once more and followed Victoria out. As soon as they stood in the waning light once more he took her in his arms, heedless of passersby. She was slight yet solid, warm through the light fabric of her summer frock, fragrant and soft and pliable. She was _everything_.

"Do you think that woman was _inebriated_?" she whispered, clutching his arm. "Or insane?"

"I think perhaps she hoped to extort even more than we had already paid her," he answered glibly.

"Well, she certainly was not like the gypsies _I_ knew!" Melbourne wanted to make some humorous observation but he felt tongue-tied and unsettled. _Where were trite truisms when you wanted them_? he wondered distractedly.

They were interrupted by the Duke of Devonshire, who approached them beaming, a satisfied smile on his face. Fred and Adine followed on his heels, Liam between them. His face was shining, and he clutched a sack of saltwater taffy in one hand. The stuff was still warm and pliable from the booth where a vendor pinched small pieces from a set of rotating arms.

"Ma'am, sir, I hope you are being tolerably well amused," Cavendish drawled in the distinct Devonshire House accents Melbourne remembered so vividly from his youth. "There will be fireworks after sunset again, and this time the children are invited to remain with us. With your permission, His Royal Highness may join us on the viewing platform."

Melbourne swung Liam up and embraced him fiercely, burying his face in the boy's soft curls.

"I think that sounds fine," he answered over his son's head. The entirety of his bizarre encounter with the fortune teller was still a muddled series of cryptic phrases, but one message stood out, resonating, making his heart soar with exultation. _This life is the right one_. Hearing those words spoken aloud was absolution and benediction. Melbourne wanted to laugh out loud at himself, to make light of the relief he felt at the verdict of an itinerant fortune teller. Whatever the dreams meant, whether a glimpse of some other, far sadder life he might have had or a lingering reminder of the apoplexy he vanquished, this life was the one he was meant to live.

However she might have known about the dreams, whether she had plucked that imagery out of his mind through some unknown psychic connection or if there was something more to it, _it didn't matter_. This life was real, and solid and true and it was all that mattered. The warm wiggling boy in his arms, the woman beside him and their sassy irrepressible daughter – perhaps even another babe someday, this life was all that mattered. It was a fine day, with a fine sunset and fireworks ahead to delight his child, and then…a fine night to come. Melbourne felt suffused with an effervescent sense of joy, pure unadulterated delight in living.

"Very fine indeed," he repeated emphatically, setting Liam down and folding Victoria's hand into his arm. "You've done well, Cavendish. We're having a splendid time."

 

* * *

  _Thursday 15th December 1836_

_Since Monday, or rather more Tuesday, the Gipsy encampments have been enlarged by 2 tents. As we were walking along the road near to the Tents, the woman who said she was called Cooper, & who is generally the spokeswoman of the party, stepped across the road from the tents, & as we turned & stopped, came up to us with a whole swarm of children, six I think. It was a singular, & yet a pretty & picturesque  sight. She herself with nothing on her head, her raven hair hanging untidily about her fine countenance, & a dingy dark green cloak hung on one side of her shoulders, while the set of little brats swarming round her, with dark disheveled hair & dark dresses, all little things & all beautiful children. She spoke to Lehzen & said they were the children of her two brothers, & “I am aunt to all these”. She said her name was Sarah & she then proceeded to name all the children of which I remember only 5. Dinah, Job, Britannia, Emmeline, & I think Helen. Britannia is a beautiful little large black eyed thing, with a dirty face which was wiped to be shown off. Sarah, then pointed to her own boy, called George, her only child, who was carrying another little nephew named Nelson, on his back. The pretty sister-in-law is not mother of these children, for she is only 20 & has none as yet. We had not proceeded far before we met the old Mother Gipsy, the pretty sister-in-law, & two other sisters-in-law, each with a baby in her arms, one of whom is very pretty; they are the mothers of the children, “Aunt Sarah” was displaying to us. – The Gipsies are a curious, peculiar & very hardy race, unlike any other!_

_As we passed the Encampment, the old Gipsy woman came out accompanied by Dinah & Emmeline, & produced from under her cloak the poor little baby, an uncommonly fine though small child for a day old only! – At a ¼ p.2 dear Lehzen, Victoire & I went out & came home at ½ p.3. One of the other Gipsy daughters-in-law was walking on the other side of the road, she is also very pretty though not the prettiest of the two new ones. Read in or rather looked over, (for I have read it through before) “The Gipsies’ advocate” by James Crabb. – It is a very pretty, pious little book, & is full of very curious, & some very touching anecdotes of these poor people. They have originally no religion, but many have been reformed by kind Clergymen & other people. – There are societies formed for reforming them. Their conjugal, filial, & paternal affection is very great, as also their kindness & attention to their sick, old, or infirm. Their morals too are almost always very pure, with the exception of an addiction to petty thefts & fortune-telling._


	4. Chapter 4

_Miss Catherine Hogarth_

The heavy choking dust to which London was subject in the warmer months left a thick coat on every surface. Horses in the care of compassionate coachmen wore fine netting to protect their eyes and nostrils, not unlike the improvised veils sported by pedestrians forced to navigate by foot.

Weather in the summer of 1846 was not unlike that of the previous year, with many cool wet days. Monday the 15th of June began with a light rain, hardly more than mist, but by late afternoon steam rose from the crowded roadways of Fleet-street and the Strand, where the process of widening and repaving with granite was well under way.

Lord Melbourne travelled in a neat closed coach. He was of two minds on the subject of his conveyance, grumbling at the notion he was too old and enfeebled to drive himself in one of the sporty open phaetons which were all the rage in his youth, secretly relieved by the comfort and convenience. _Before_ , the expense of a brougham and cost of stabling a team had often been a painful expenditure. _Now_ , the very notion of the Queen's consort traveling unescorted and exposed was an unthinkable risk. To that, Melbourne had no rebuttal. The Crown was too often a target of the angry poor stirred up by fire-breathers fomenting unrest from a soap box in Trafalgar Square.

He did wonder at times whether he was being fundamentally changed by his elevation in status, becoming accustomed and even entitled. Melbourne loathed fuss and bother in every form, and at times his resistance to the privileges of his unique position rose to the level of creating the very folderol he preferred to avoid.

It had been easier for Albert to step into the role of consort. Albert, from an otherwise-obscure, penurious principality, had been raised to consider himself the equal of his cousin and affianced royal wife. But then nothing else had been easy for Albert, poor lad – under perpetual suspicion of his father and uncle, whose sneering, derogatory criticisms of his perceived lack of masculinity had twisted him into a Gordian knot of repression and overcompensation to prove them wrong.

Melbourne had watched with interest as the young man gradually threw off his shackles and learned to laugh and explore and _feel_. He sometimes wondered who Albert might have become in later life, once the delayed – if entirely normal – sowing of his wild oats was behind him. But that was not to be, and so he would be remembered as he had died, an exuberant, if socially awkward, young man of twenty-three, throwing himself with passionate enthusiasms. _All_ of his enthusiasms, some of which had brought him to that Cheapside molly house where he met his end.

"Sir, I'm afraid the buggers – sorry, your highness, the workmen – are completely blocking the road."

One of the postillions had opened the carriage door and stuck his head in, belatedly remembering to sweep the hat off his head and assume a subservient posture. _One of Cameron's then_ , Melbourne thought. Many of the male protection officers emulated their leader, even those whose speech gave away their gentle birth and Eton education – bold, insouciant and slightly careless of etiquette, while the women were of more uncertain background. None that Melbourne had met were from what one would call _good_ families, and if some of them had a provocative eye and the physical _presence_ of a stage actress, others were so masculine in bearing and manner that they scarcely seemed to be of any recognizable gender despite their skirts and hats.

"We can clear the way, sir," the lieutenant in charge of the regular Household guard said sternly.

"Not advised, your lordship. These bully boys go pushing and shoving, no telling where it'll lead. We might be almost to Grub Street proper but plenty of ne'er-do-wells loitering about all the same."

"How far are we from Bouverie Street?" Melbourne asked, unsuccessfully straining to see anything beyond the broad red military jacket of one and the dark broadcloth of the other. Receiving no answer beyond the horrified glance his escorts exchanged, Melbourne picked up his hat and cane as a clear signal he intended to get down and walk.

He picked his way around a team of twelve dray horses straining mightily to remove a section of old sewer pipe intact. At his side, the plainclothes protection officer huffed, plainly finding it a challenge to match the stride of Melbourne's long legs, despite the vast difference in age. To the front and rear, a matched set of Queen's guards in shirtsleeves, their braided uniform coats left behind with their fellows in the carriage.

The _Daily_ _News_ was only a few doors down from _Punch_ , the satirical paper whose caricatures of Lord Melbourne over the years had enlivened the clubs. _Still would_ , Melbourne supposed, if they knew the self-same William Lamb – his surname a gift to those seeking to mock – was just then adjusting his neckcloth in the reflection of their plate glass front window.

Charles Dickens was unflappable, and showed little surprise at His Grace the Duke of Melbourne arriving on foot, his thick greying hair windblown and the big handsome face betraying a slight flush under the start of a summer's golden tan.

Dickens executed an economical bow for the benefit of his front office staff, a young woman poring over ledger books and a boy staring with frank interest.

"Your Grace, may I present Georgiana Hogarth, Catherine's sister?" he intoned formally.

Melbourne looked down at the female. She was as dark as Mrs. Dickens, and as pretty, with a lively intelligence apparent in big brown eyes. There was a long pause before she bobbed her head and bent her knees in an approximation of the deep, graceful curtsies seen at Court.

"How do you do, madame?" he asked pleasantly.

The lady had extended her hand, and was momentarily flustered when he did not immediately take it. To save her embarrassment, Melbourne just grazed her fingertips with his own and bent as though he would kiss it. Hand-kissing, of course, was a ritual reserved for upper class drawing rooms, but he was prepared to excuse her presumption. Instead, he met her gaze and saw a sparkle of humor. _She wants to laugh, the little devil,_ he realized, charmed and intrigued by such a show of self-confidence in a young and decidedly middle-class female.

"Well, then – if you come into my quarters I'll send Todd here for some cold drinks. The saloon on the corner is well-stocked with ice and beer."

Melbourne left his escorts in the front room and followed Dickens down a long dark corridor. The press room was empty and silent at late afternoon; it would be an entirely different place after midnight when the type was set and the next day's paper being printed.

They went into a more spacious chamber, which functioned as a private office for the editor-in-chief of the _News. I_ t served as a parlor and sometime-sleeping room on those occasions when he found the company of his wife unbearable.

Melbourne idly wondered whether the younger sister consoled her brother-in-law at such times. The sisters were daughters of George Hogarth, a music critic for the Morning Chronicle, so famously well-educated that a generation before they might have been labeled blue stockings. An admirer of Caroline Norton no doubt, he decided. Certainly cut from the same cloth as bold, opinionated females. Hopefully, for the peace of Charles' home life, different in manner and morality.

"You heard the speeches? I attended, briefly. It was all so boring I couldn't bear it."

"Even you couldn't find a way to satirize the weighty issue of whether the Croydon railway is liable to injure the operation of the Greenwich Observatory? You shock me!"

"William, never underestimate me. I can find the humor in anything, since medicine goes down best with a teaspoon of honey. Lord Worsely gave a rather good address on Irish law. He made some real progress in explaining plainly why it behooves us nothing to continue attempting to govern by coercion when all it's earned us is enmity already. At least when you were in Dublin, you let the poor bastards feel as though they had a voice. You never, as I recall, turned anyone away who wanted to plead their case before you directly."

Melbourne waved a long, elegant hand dismissively.

"Worsely sent us a copy of his speech against the newest bill. There seem to be many provisions in this Bill which are unconstitutional in their principle, and could not prove otherwise than highly oppressive in their operation. Amongst these, one of the most exceptionable is that which exposed any man - quite possibly a man innocent of any wrongdoing - to the loss of liberty for the constructive offence of being found out of his house after sunset. A policeman is to be the only judge of what constitutes "suspicious circumstances."

Melbourne stopped himself when the door creaked open behind them. Miss Georgiana Hogarth carried a tray containing several bottles, the surfaces beaded with condensation. The pug-nosed printshop boy followed, swinging a pail in which more bottles clinked and rattled, surrounded by chunks of ice.

"Go on," the young woman said encouragingly. "Don't stop talking on my account."

She once again met Melbourne's eyes directly, her own expression frank and friendly, if a touch challenging. He wondered how long it had been since anyone except his wife and his sister looked at him without at least token deference to rank and station. It was both refreshing and slightly disconcerting, as though this young woman saw him as an equal – a mere man, and one whom she had some interest in becoming further acquainted. _And that_ , he told himself, _is a dangerously heady sensation_.

There was, thankfully, no hint of flirtation in her voice or manner as she took a seat equidistant from her brother-in-law and Melbourne.

"I asked Charles to smuggle me in to hear arguments. It _is_ possible. Your wife did that once, eons ago, I believe. I was quite young when I heard the story and it impressed me greatly."

"Why is that?" Melbourne quizzed, his own voice light and lilting with humor. "Did you aspire to disguise yourself in boys' clothing and sneak into the realms of men?"

"I don't think there should be places that men are allowed and women are not. Certainly not places like the House, which hear arguments concerning all citizens."

"'Citizens', Miss Hogart? I'm of a generation for whom that word holds certain – negative connotations. Are you a republican then?"

Melbourne expected either ready denial or heated embrace of the republican ideals which had struck the spark that later engulfed all of France in bloody upheaval. Instead, she looked thoughtfully at him and finally shook her head slowly.

"I don't _think_ I am, or a full-fledged socialist, but there are merits in both philosophies. Certainly you agree we must do much, much more to help the poor and address some of the most egregious inequalities? Any good man of conscience cannot deny those precepts."

Melbourne considered her words. She made one of those specious, either/or, black/white arguments the young were so very attached to, and he surmised her mind was better than that. Did he want to bother unpacking the simplistic sentiments, to explain all the complex, multi-layered realities of steering the destiny of a nation? Could he, without sounding unbearably sanctimonious? He found that he did, and he could.

The three of them lost all track of the time, as Melbourne rediscovered the pleasure of intellectual discourse with an apt pupil. Miss Hogarth did not give in easily, and in fact abandoned few of the more shocking ideals she espoused on feminine equality and the urgent need of social reform. As she envisioned it, Britain would become a paternalistic society, providing for the basic needs of all Her Majesty's subjects. This would be done by taxing the wealthy on an incrementally increasing basis depending on both earned income and inherited wealth. An _inheritance tax_ scheme was one of her most impossible suggestions.

"But my dear Miss Hogarth, our nation derives its stability from the landowning class. Great estates would be broken up in a generation if primogeniture were threatened. Where would one's heir find the means to support a title if a part of that estate must be broken up and sold piecemeal to pay the government? In England we have the best of both worlds, an elected House of Commons and hereditary House of Lords, each with their own role to play."

"And the King – or Queen, as we have now, Lord Melbourne? What good does that serve, and how much does it cost us to receive that service, such as it is?"

Melbourne's eyes widened, not so much by the anti-royalist sentiment, as by her ignorance or naivete in expressing it so matter-of-factly to the Queen's husband. _Had she forgotten to whom she spoke?_ He asked himself, and realized he was irrationally flattered rather than offended.

"Georgiana!" Dickens interjected, throwing up both palms in a gesture of surrender. "William, I do apologize. Georgiana, you forget yourself, I think. I embrace both reform and debate wholeheartedly, but it doesn't excuse lack of civility to someone I consider a friend."

"If I offended you, I apologize," she said, looking directly at Melbourne. "I've enjoyed talking to you so well that I _did_ forget myself. Tell me honestly, do _you_ believe in a continuation of the Monarchy?"

Melbourne recollected himself and wondered at the time. The oddly exhilarating mood - like those all-night discussions in the undergraduate commons at Trinity – had dissipated, and he realized it was long since time he take his leave.

"I do, Miss Hogarth, whole-heartedly. As a loyal subject of the Queen, and a lifetime servant of Crown and Country, I believe the Monarchy is essential to our national identity, a tradition which binds us all together despite changing governments, changing times, evolving mores. However –"

Melbourne lowered his voice, as if about to impart a seditious secret, and leaned forward. "-as a man, I sometimes wish that I could have my wife to myself and not have to share her with the world. As I get older I find that no matter how much time I have with her, it is never enough."

He straightened to his full height, keeping his face turned towards Charles and pointedly ignoring the young woman. She had not precisely offended him, but their discussion had gone on too long and, having started in a tone of informality, had quickly grown too much like discourse between friends. Georgiana Hogarth was a refreshingly forthright young woman with a good understanding – no matter how misguided – and he had always savored the role of mentor to young people. He tended to be drawn to females cast in the mold of his mother, opinionated, outspoken and yet with an innate, unforced charm. Very _attractive_ females.

Miss Hogarth was all of that, and she was also entirely unsuited for friendship. Had she been of his own class, and safely married, he might at least contemplate the pleasure of another encounter, another rousing debate, even a light – and entirely chaste – flirtation, in company of course. But for all his sins, he had never crossed that social divide, not once in a storied career. It was not a matter of snobbery, but rather that an intrinsic difference in status made an insurmountable disadvantage. His own brother-in-law might see nothing amiss in dalliance with willing shop girls and avid chambermaids, but in his own mind there could be no question of even the most innocent attention paid to a young woman without rank or influence, or a husband's name to protect her reputation.

"But that is an opinion I will ask you to keep to yourself, Charles, Miss Hogarth. I won't have my words turn up out of context on the front plate of Mr. Marx's next volume. I am only a man helplessly besotted with my wife. Quite déclassé!' my sister would admonish me. Good night to you both."

**

A drenching downpour came and went, leaving vast puddles in its wake, along with a sharp, fresh fragrance in place of the omnipresent sewer stench of summer in the city. The rain had put an end to roadwork as well, so that Melbourne was able to step directly into his waiting coach. They made good time, despite the detour past Covent Gardens square that Melbourne demanded they make. The fruit and flower vendors of daylight had given way to females offering an entirely different variety of natural delights. A solitary wagon remained, its enterprising proprietor displaying flowers arranged into corsages and bouquets for those gentlemen hoping to woo an actress or opera dancer.

Melbourne sent an outrider, who returned holding a nosegay at arm's length. He examined it critically, searching his mind for the _lingua flora_ definition. Wouldn't do to get this wrong, he thought ruefully. Heliotrope and Sweet William, with a few sprigs of Sissinghurst pulmonaria which undoubtedly grew in some park nearby. It was that which decided him. Devotion and Gallantry, almost unbearably trite, but then Thou Art My Life for a touch of solemnity. Where could he find better on a wet Monday night?

"That'll do," he had said decisively. "Let's make haste. I'm eager to be home."

Dinner was over, Melbourne assumed as he trudged up the back staircase. Victoria would be in the drawing room or, considering the fine freshness of the night air, perhaps she was on the balcony with her ladies and her mother. He didn't recall any visitors worth mentioning, but the Queen was never alone.

With the apparent sixth sense of a good valet, Baines had the hip bath filled and waiting and a large copper kettle of water steaming on the stove. He refrained from comment when he observed the condition of Melbourne's coat, only turned ostentatiously away and began vigorously brushing dust from the finely woven fabric.

 _To dress or not to dress?_ Melbourne wondered, lazing in the tub. He permitted Baines to shave him, a task he normally insisted on performing for himself, and so his head was tipped back against the rim of the tub when her distant, silvery laughter came through the closed doors. She must be in the sitting room, he thought; her voice was too faint to originate in the bedchamber.

He shook his head at the fresh folded nightshirt, and instead pulled on trousers and shirt. His hair was damp despite vigorous toweling and the billowing white shirt was open far enough to reveal more than a little of his throat and chest, but both were tolerable since he had no intention of presenting himself to the Queen before company. If Victoria was in her sitting room, she could only be with one of the Household, a lady-in-waiting or her mother. It might be a minor breach of etiquette for the Queen's husband to appear in a state of relaxed dishabille, but in their private apartments he was unlikely to shock whomever was with Victoria. Most likely Lehzen, with one or both of the children, Melbourne told himself and brightened at the thought. Perhaps they had kept themselves awake, in anticipation of their father's return.

Melbourne looked for the poor sad bouquet, intended for the careless hands of a Covent Garden lightskirt and destined instead for the Queen.

"William! I didn't realize you were here!" The surprise in her voice was genuine, even a trifle excessive considering she addressed her husband in their apartment. Melbourne thought with amusement that her words were, perhaps, not wisely chosen, considering he had surprised his wife while she sat, unchaperoned, in her small sitting room almost knee-to-knee with the hulking figure of Billy Cameron.

"And now you see that I am," he retorted mildly, nodding his head to acknowledge Billy's presence. "How are you, Billy?"

Cameron had gotten to his feet when Melbourne appeared, prompt enough for courtesy and with no sign of haste.

"Well, sir. Wet, but well enough, considering we were caught out in that _monsoon_."

"Is that what they call it in the East?"

Melbourne considered the crystal decanter on the table. Sherry, he surmised, and decided against pouring any. Neither Victoria nor Cameron had anything before them, so they had not planned on an extended tête-à-tête.

"Did it rain in the City too? It came down so hard, and so suddenly, we were quite drenched! The winds blew branches down on our platform and if Billy hadn't gotten me away –"

Melbourne did not miss the discrete gesture whereby Cameron silenced her. Out of modesty, no doubt – Victoria had been almost gushing – but he couldn't quite like the fact that they were able to communicate silently, with no more than a twitch of the man's finger in her direction. It presupposed that she was – what? Attuned to him? Too aware of him?

"Billy, we'll talk more tomorrow. William, will you be here? Billy has news from Jind Kaur. She wrote to him directly and sent it by one of the Governor-General's own envoys."

"Tomorrow is good," Melbourne said quickly, to preclude her going into detail.

"Then we will say good night, Billy. Thank you for getting me away, and keeping me dry." Victoria's dismissal was preemptory and matter-of-fact, he thought, hypersensitive to any nuance which might indicate excessive interest or familiarity. _Of course the man's_ familiar _, it's his nature_ , Melbourne reminded himself. _But it is not hers. She never shows anyone her private face, except me._

He was relieved to see that was still the case. Victoria's pretty features were smooth and composed, even mildly affectionate when she turned her face toward Billy, but her gaze neither lingered on his or avoided him. She was…dispassionate, he thought. Disinterested, in some vital way that mattered extremely.

Instead of going directly into the bedchamber, Melbourne lowered himself into one of two Louis XV gilt chairs. He unceremoniously tugged at Victoria's hand until she was on her feet, and then pulled her down onto his lap. Her commodious skirts made it nearly impossible for her to arrange herself with dignity.

"Go take all of this off. Send for your maid and then be rid of her. I will wait here, so we can talk about our day. I want to hear all about this horrible _monsoon_ your intrepid cavalier Billy saved you from. It sounds like a thrilling adventure." He didn't attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice entirely, but his voice was gentle and caressing to his own ears and Victoria's expression was vexed, then amused.

"You sound jealous, Lord Melbourne. Very well, I will have Skerrett undress me and then return to tell you all about it."

She returned a scant ten minutes later, swathed in a négligée with lace foaming at her throat and cuffs. In the language of marriage, Melbourne knew she was indicating amorous interest. Well, he thought, then _she_ can seduce _me._

When he didn't take her onto his lap directly, Victoria seated herself on the small sofa and described the ceremonial unveiling of a monument and the sudden gust of wind which ripped the canvas canopy from its mooring pegs. It had, by the sound of it, threatened to collapse full-weight onto Victoria and the other dignitaries, but her loyal body guard had lifted her bodily off the platform and out of the way. He had deposited her – somewhat unceremoniously, it seemed – in her carriage and gone back to assist in the rescue of the Lord Mayor and a bishop. Those gentlemen had emerged with only their dignity injured, crawling on hands and knees from under the heavy water-logged tent.

"Was it very _thrilling_ when he carried you off?" Melbourne teased in falsetto. "Which of your ladies was with you? You didn't say. Do we have a vacancy in the Household, or did he go back for her, poor thing?"

"No," Victoria laughed uncertainly. "Charlotte was supposed to go with me, but at the last possible minute she sent word she was ill so we went alone. I had the Queen's Guard, in addition to Billy, of course."

"Of course," Melbourne agreed. _But not in the carriage with you, I don't think._

He understood what he was doing, in his own mind: throwing up nonsensical concerns to distract him from a vague sense of guilt at his own interest, no matter how innocent, in Dickens' pretty young sister-in-law.  

"Tell me about your day, Lord M," Victoria said brightly to change the subject.

She got to her feet and moved to stand directly in front of him. Presenting herself, he knew, his girl still too essentially shy in matters of seduction to do anything more overt. He reached up a hand and untied the sash holding her gown closed. Underneath she wore only a lacy chemise, of a silk so fine that it was nearly transparent. It stirred him at once, but he resolved to go slowly and tease her into uncharacteristic boldness.

"I read the speeches they sent over," he said slowly, motioning for her to turn around. Victoria pirouetted obediently, so that her rounded derriere, rosy pink under white silk, was almost at eye level.

"I saw a few petitioners. A foundry owner who wants to purchase a piece of land outside of Birmingham proper. The local squires are up in arms about destruction of good fox hunting turf."

Melbourne plucked at her gown so that it fell and pooled at her feet, and she wore nothing but the chemise ending at the top of her thighs. Barely covering that delicious rump, he observed. _Barely_ was the thing; he found the glimpse of flesh peeking out more enticing than the whole.

"Oh, and of course a delegate from the Bank of Scotland. They are seeking an exemption from the Banking Act and wanted my _advice_ on how to proceed. That –" he stroked her leg with the very tip of one finger, from calf to midthigh. When she parted her legs slightly in invitation he withdrew and traced her spine instead.

"I saw Charles," he continued, his voice hardly above a whisper, hoarse and quavering despite a firm intention to remain detached until her passion built.

"His wife's sister is working in his office. She is –" Melbourne cleared his throat. " – a character. Unabashedly anti-royalist and not afraid to tell me so."

"How – how unfortunate. Did you tell her the monarchy will continue, with or without her support?" Victoria's own voice trembled and he felt her quiver under his feather-light touch.

"I told her I am in love with my wife, and so unable to be impartial," Melbourne said, and now he was almost chuckling.

"My wife who goes out unescorted by anyone except a fellow who wants to – that, ma'am, was quite inappropriate." His tone had sharpened more than he intended, and Victoria ventured a look over her shoulder. "I think, for your own good, you must be taught a lesson to remind you how inappropriate."

Without considering, Melbourne took hold of her waist and took her onto his lap. He turned her over so the hem of her chemise pulled up, exposing her posterior. He stroked the contours, enjoying the sensation of smooth skin over taut muscle, the glimpse of something darker where her legs joined. Then he sharply smacked Victoria, once, twice, three times.

"Now," he announced, satisfaction plain in his voice. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

He took her into their chamber and laid her on great bed. He cupped her face in his hands, precious little heart-shaped face like a love-struck kitten, and kissed her, gently at first and then more firmly. He explored her mouth and the sensation of his lips on hers, tongues dueling, drinking in her breath and giving her his own. He regarded the increasingly frantic little movements of her hips with tender satisfaction but ignored their demand, only kissing. When her hands found him and tugged at his buttons he gently gripped her wrists and moved then away.

At length he took his mouth from hers and kissed her shoulders, first one and then the other, using his lips to explore every inch of skin there. He took her breasts in his mouth, kissed each smooth globe before latching onto the nipple, lapping at her gently, curling his tongue around the nipple.

When he kissed her there, lips and tongue moved in a hypnotic dance, finding their own rhythm while his hands kept her hips still so she must focus on that one infinitesimal connection.

He derived nearly as much pleasure from the throbbing urgency of his own need as any eventual satisfaction. Her writhing, moaning, mewling peaks made him vast, illimitable, beyond any constraints imposed by the years, and when she finally drew him in, brought him home in her, there was only her, and him, and their joining and it was beyond good. It was perfect.

 

"Do you think we made a baby, William?" Victoria knew enough of men – of her own man, Melbourne amended – to permit him a measure of solitude after their lovemaking. Solitude to gradually reclaim awareness. Undemanding, she would stroke his back or his arm, lending the comfort of her presence and asking nothing in return.

Eventually, when breathing normalized and his limbs were heavy with pleasurable lethargy, they would talk. This quiet time was part of their conjugal relations, when they whispered together, nonsense lovers' talk or things too intimate to be easily spoken of in daylight.

Baby. He was still torn, between wanting to watch a baby grow. Watching _openly_ , for he had stolen surreptitious glimpses of both Liam and Lily as they made their mother's abdomen swell, felt the rippling subterranean movements. But _this_ time he could do so openly, could shout to the stars – or the courtiers who surrounded them – that it was _his_ child growing in their queen. But at the cost of her life, her health – his mind shut down instantly at that consideration, unable to process the inevitable conclusion. Even if the physicians concurred, as they had, that she would face no more risk than any other woman, neither would she face any less. Women died in childbirth daily, even women with every advantage, carefully cossetted princesses like her cousin Charlotte.

Victoria sighed, then raised herself on one elbow to smooth his brows.

"You get a line just here, and I know you are worried for me. If you cannot be happy at the thought of a baby, then I don't want to do it."

"My little love, my precious girl, that is a decision you must make. I…cannot. Please don't ask it of me. I will do my part – obviously, as I think I just proved – and you know I would love any child you bore. But I cannot bear the burden of deciding one way or the other."

As soon as he said it, speaking from his heart, Melbourne knew it was the only thing he could say that _was_ truth. His truth.

"Now, as lovely a sight as you are, put on your gown and hand me mine. The maids open the drapes ungodly early."

Melbourne crossed his arms behind his head and watched as Victoria pulled her more modest white lawn gown over her head, then padded to the dressing room to retrieve his. Decently attired, she got back into bed and settled herself beside him once more.

"I love you, William. With all of my heart, and more. You are my everything."

"Oh, my precious girl." He drew her against him and kissed her forehead. "Everything. Good night, Mrs. Melbourne."

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

****

**G OF TENEMENTS BILL HC Deb 17 June 1846**

_Please request Lord Grey provide us with summary of preventative measures ensuring that housing for the poor not be discouraged by the passage of this bill. We read with great interest Mr. Scropes' speech, wherein he opines that the effect of rendering the owners of small tenements liable for rates would be to discourage the investment of capital in the erection of houses for the labouring population._

And then, several pages on,

_During the reign of our predecessor HM George III, it was held as common law that there exist  a large class of persons who, though not actually receiving parochial relief, were on the verge of pauperism despite diligence in the pursuit of gainful employment, these persons of a reputable character and requiring only minimal protection from the most onerous of rates. These are heretofore referred to as the Working or Labouring Class._

Finally, on the final page of the Bill, Victoria wrote once more, the letters neat despite the necessity of inscribing her message in the narrow margin,

_Despite the intrinsic virtue of any attempt at regulating unhealthy living conditions and restraining those who seek to derive exorbitant profit from the hasty construction of substandard tenements, it is our opinion that Parliament should engage to incorporate the findings and recommendations of our Royal Commission into legislative efforts such as this, lest unintended consequences which might have been foreseen heap additional suffering on the least of our subjects. Pray strive to find a position of compromise between the two positions, and one which will not displace tenants currently residing in those buildings designated for removal, unless alternative arrangements are made in advance._

She saw with a familiar feeling of vague surprise that the hour was well advanced. The hands on an ormolu mantle clock rested at a half past five.

Victoria derived great satisfaction from her work, the application of intellect and reason to those matters which were generally held to be beyond the interest or comprehension of either a sovereign or a female. She had always been a good student, innate diligence and a well-formed habit of application shaping what might otherwise have been a quite ordinary intellect. Victoria understood and accepted that hers was not the sort of mind which grasped abstract considerations and philosophical discourse, the sort of natural affinity for contemplative reflection that defined Lord Melbourne's extraordinary intelligence. He had a faculty of reasoning which turned over every issue, finding correlation to something written by a Greek sophist or early Church father. As much as she hung on his every word with admiration, she knew herself hopelessly lost when he would cite the opinion of Carneades as though he were a contemporary, Democritus with offhand familiarity.

To Victoria, Melbourne's tangential flights of fancy, his gentle unassuming whimsy and fascination with some esoteric element others entirely missed, were all part of what made him the most singularly charming, endlessly fascinating man in the world. She knew herself to be of an entirely pragmatic temperament, and did not undervalue either that or her work ethic, considering both necessary to a sovereign.

At the thought of her husband, Victoria felt her features soften and became belatedly aware that she had been wearing the stern expression which was becoming her public face. It had been assumed, early on, when she sought to compensate for extreme youth by maintaining a severe, dignified demeanor.

_I cannot simper and smile my way through audiences_ , she thought defensively. _It would detract from the natural authority I must project._ Alone in the small windowless room where she retreated to work, Victoria scrunched her face up into comical shapes to loosen the musculature and rubbed finger and thumb across the skin at the sides of her mouth to erase what she imagined might be frown lines. Then she laughed softly at her own foolish vanity and rang the bell to summon a hall page.

**

On those evenings when no notable guests had been invited to dine, Victoria often preferred dining alone with Melbourne. She knew it caused snide comments from her household, even when Lord Melbourne invited the Duchess of Kent to their apartment. The ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen of the court would be left to their own devices on such occasions, freed of the protocol required at the Queen's table.

Neck stiff from the afternoon spent at her desk, reading the minutiae of government business, poring over those speeches from the House which had been transcribed and remitted for her attention, Victoria suddenly felt _old_. Joints creaking in protest at being required to move after so many sedentary hours, a vague headache tightening its grip on her temples – _I am twenty-seven_ , she told herself severely. _No longer a girl._

That notion was so unpleasant she pushed it away and strode swiftly down the corridor, wanting to stretch her limbs and fill her lungs with fresh outside air.

"Oh! You're home!"

The footman who had opened the door to her apartment jumped back to avoid coming in contact with Her Majesty, who moved more quickly than he had anticipated. Victoria nodded slightly, to signify acknowledgement if not an apology, and then forgot the young man entirely.

Melbourne was seated in their small drawing room, his feet on an ottoman and head tilted back as though he'd been napping. Victoria stopped short of rushing at him, and stood expectantly, her head tilted slightly in an instinctive fond smile, more beguiling than she knew.

"I did look in on you, but you were so engrossed in your work I did not wish to disturb you." He ran a hand across his face and then through his hair, the motion serving to muss rather than smooth his longish curls.

"Poor Commission," she said briefly, knowing he would understand. "And the Tenements Bill."

"Ah," Melbourne replied, stretching out the syllable. "Did you wish to discuss it?"

"Not in the slightest!" Victoria was adamant. "I've had enough of the poor today. Will you ride with me? Or walk, if you rather? I want to get out into the air. I've been cooped up all day."

He had only substituted town shoes for a more comfortable pair of boots, so that Victoria was still having her own habit buttoned into place when he slipped into her dressing room.

"The park will be busy," he drawled lazily. "It's the height of the Season and the prime time of day for promenading."

"Ugh!" Victoria wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I don't wish to take guards, and I do _not_ want to acknowledge dozens of bows. Shall we go the other direction?"

 "We could do no more than canter through the gardens, and that only if the gardeners are at their supper."

"Then let's walk instead. No one can object to my going out unescorted if we stay within palace grounds."

Leaving the Palace unobserved, evading the pomp which greeted her every movement – ladies who had served her for years must still curtsy when they met for the first time in a day, gentlemen in waiting, equerries and servants would bow and scrape and invariably follow her in anticipation of some unmet need – was no easy feat. Victoria was suddenly restless, her muscles veritably jerking with the need for vigorous exercise and an escape from indoor confinement.

"Ma'am, if I may, I do know one or two ways to come and go unobserved." Melbourne held out his arm, but Victoria chose to take his hand instead, feeling as giddy as a girl in her first season about to go walking with a beau.

The gardens were at their best, in the first flush of exuberant bloom. A riot of color, massed tulip beds succeeded by gaudy scarlet peonies as big as dinner plates, manicured bushes framing walkways so perfectly kept the green resembled velvet, so soft it invited bare feet.

"No, I think not," Melbourne laughed when Victoria proposed removing shoes and stockings. "That is a delight reserved for Brocket Hall, where we may be assured of privacy."

They strolled hand in hand, having expended the first burst of Victoria's frenetic energy on a circuit around the outer perimeter, and spoke idly of whatever came to mind. In comfortable walking shoes the top of Victoria's hatless head scarcely reached the level of her husband's shoulder, an observation which prompted her to pause and gaze up searchingly.

"What?" he questioned finally.

"How do you do it? You grow younger and more handsome while I age precipitously. I was only a month past my eighteenth birthday when we met, and now I am seven-and-twenty and no longer in the first blush of youth."

Victoria watched the play of expressions on that dear, handsome face, the subtle widening of his large gentle eyes, a twitch of muscles at the corner of finely-drawn, sensitive lips, nostrils flaring on his Roman nose. He permitted the smallest of smiles, then abandoned a futile attempt to remain serious and laughed.

"I am serious!" she protested weakly, stamping her foot to make the point. "I was quite stiff when I got up from my desk, and my neck was sore. And…and when I bathe, I notice things beginning to sag and –"

"Oh my little love," Melbourne spluttered. "I assure you nothing is sagging, and you must concede I am in a better position to know than you. As to my growing – er, younger – well, you flatter me, ma'am. If I am not a tottering decrepit it is because I have a bride in the _first blush of youth_ to inspire me. That and a termagant who denies me all the pleasures of table and flask. Once, I thought nothing of dining on two or three beefsteaks removed by capon or stuffed filet, not to mention all the side dishes the clubs fling onto the table, followed by a bottle or two of port and that much again of brandy. That, only for dinner. If we were a good-sized group, there would be a midnight supper as well, and…."

Victoria had not been listening, content to let the sound of his voice, so rasping and tender, wash over her while she turned his hand over in her own. _What did the Gypsy woman see in his palm?_ She wondered, examining the pattern of lines and creases she had never considered before. He had beautiful hands, the fingers long and elegantly tapering. At six feet, Melbourne was taller than average, yet not so grotesquely large and muscled as Billy Cameron. Victoria considered her own husband's physique exactly what a gentleman's should be, neither painfully thin nor so bulky with muscle he resembled a member of the _labouring classes_ , but just right to make a woman feel dainty in comparison, capable of providing protection, comfort and pleasure equally.

She bowed her head and kissed his palm, tongue darting out to flick at the sensitive V between each finger. The sound of someone approaching caused her to regretfully release it and raise her head once more.

"Your Majesty." Lady Portman approached from the far side of a grove of flowering bushes planted where two walking paths diverged.

Victoria had welcomed Emma back to Court and allowed her to go her own way, re-entering the life of the palace. She was still chief Lady of the Bedchamber – that appointment was an official one not readily dispensed with, at least not without incurring gossip and speculation – and presumably had taken up the reins once more, imposing discipline where needed, settling the inevitable disputes and making up duty rosters. Victoria realized suddenly that, without openly snubbing Lady Portman, neither had she gone out of her way to reestablish their old rapport.

"Emma," she said pleasantly, with what she hoped was an expression to match. She missed their old easy friendship, and resented the idea that any overture must come from her.

"Lord Melbourne." Lady Portman curtsied to the Queen first, and then to her husband.

"'Your Grace' will suffice, Emma," Melbourne said so curtly that Victoria blinked in surprise. It was not like him to stand on his dignity. Clearly Lady Portman had the same thought, because her cheeks went pink, two rounds of color standing out against her pale skin.

"Your Grace," she corrected herself, preparing to curtsy once more.

"Emma, Emma, I am quizzing you. Have you left your sense of the ridiculous back in Edward's cattle barn?"

He glanced at Victoria as though asking permission and invited Lady Portman to walk with them.

"One more trip around, only so I can find the perfect blossom for Victoria's hair. Bear us company, do."

Victoria was prepared to feel offended on several counts – that the sweetness of unaccustomed privacy must be forfeit, that it was her place and not Melbourne's to extend such a signal favor – but instead found herself complacently allowing her hand to be folded into her husband's arm.

As he did so well, as he had always done, Melbourne's social ease, his endearing charm, the _bon mots_ which had both ladies in gales of laughter, melted any remaining iciness between Victoria and her erstwhile friend. By the time they reached the South portico, from which they could enter and go up, Victoria had the stem of a waxy white gardenia in her hair and a sense that she and Emma Portman had begun anew.

"It will be a fine night for the opera, ma'am," she said as they prepared to take their leave. "Lady Dalmeny is crowing about her new gown."

"Lady Dalmeny? Is she accompanying us?" Victoria said, forcing her expression to remain neutral and hide her distaste. She could not like the _most beautiful girl in England_ , for her height and her pride and a certain air of contemptuous superiority.

"She is on duty this weekend, ma'am, so yes, she is accompanying you. The Dowager Duchess and Dowager Queen will have their own attendants, of course."

"Can't you go in her place, Emma? It's Rossini's Semiramide. I think you would enjoy it and as you say, it is a fine night to be in London. The air is quite clear."

"I'm sure I would enjoy it, ma'am. I'm afraid I can't go in her place. It would be a slight to which she would naturally take offense."

"Then you may go _with_ her. I can certainly have two attendants. Ask one of the gentlemen from Lord M's household to pair with you."

**

"Well done, ma'am," Melbourne said as soon as the door to their apartment had closed behind them.

"Does it mean so much to you, that Emma is restored to my good graces?" Victoria asked curiously.

"It does, for your sake, ma'am. You need friends. I cannot be your only friend here, and you had a special fondness for Emma previously. It will do you good to have a female to whom you can complain about me."

Victoria felt his hands clasp her waist and leaned into him, liking the sensation of being held as though she were a mere child against his broad chest, in his strong arms.

"Look," he said, glancing down. "Your waist is so small I can almost fit my hands around it. If you have your way, that will change."

Victoria saw a certain questioning look and tilted her head, her own expression kittenish.

"I don't _know_ anything yet but I have not had a course in – well, six weeks at least. Of course," she added hurriedly. "I am never regular so that in itself means nothing."

Victoria bathed and was dressed in fresh undergarments, and had her brown hair arranged in a chignon at the back of her head from which several loose curling strands were allowed to escape. The gown which was slipped carefully over her head was raspberry silk, a shade she decided was flattering to her complexion. Gold-edged black lace could just be seen where the bodice dipped to show the slope of her breasts, matching a lacy shawl draped over bare shoulders.

She half-expected Melbourne to appear in a cherry-red waistcoat, but if any such impulse had tempted his valet, Baines had resisted succumbing. His black tailcoat was exquisitely molded to his shape, the white silk cravat and waistcoat accentuating the slightly golden hue of a summer tan.

Victoria regretfully accepted her husband's dislike of furbelows – where she would have delighted in lavishing him with gifts of jewelry suitable to a gentleman of his station, he wore no more than the simple gold ring that he had had crafted to pair with the wedding band on her own finger. No watch fob, no great shining ruby or sapphire marring the intricate knot in his cravat, not even a ruby or sapphire signet. On impulse, Victoria held her own hand out so that their wedding rings lay side by side. It was not a common thing, for a gentleman to wear marriage bands, and that he made such a public display of their bond was romantic and deeply touching.

In lieu of a tiara or the ostrich feather ladies so often wore in their coiffure, Victoria's maid had secured the white gardenia with a pin, then fastened a filigree chain suspending a single diamond the size of a pigeon's egg around her neck.

The dowagers would ride with Victoria and Lord Melbourne; her mother and her aunt, once the young brides of portly middle-aged princes in a race to provide the heir to the crown, were now themselves middle-aged. Their relationship had ranged from friendship to tension to open enmity and now had settled into one of grudging camaraderie.

Victoria embraced each of them, miming a kiss to each powdered, rouged cheek, and stepped back so that Melbourne could execute a perfect, courtly bow. He kissed each hand and offered effusive compliments which might have been overdone except that he gave each such an impish look of complicit humor that they blushed and giggled like debutantes.

She was inordinately pleased to see Emma Portman standing beside Wilhelmina Dalmeny née Stanhope, the former wearing an acerbic smile, the latter's nose distinctly out of joint at the intrusion.

"Ladies, shall we? I am a fortunate man indeed, to be squiring the three most beautiful women in England," Melbourne said, graciously – and pointedly, Victoria thought with pleasure – including his mother-in-law and the widow of the late King.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well done, darling. You scarcely snored, and managed to keep your head nearly upright throughout."

Victoria's teasing elicited only a grin and shrug from Melbourne. He sat across from them, having handed the Dowager Duchess into the carriage beside Victoria.

On a few such outings, as a special treat, he had surprised Victoria with a late supper at one of the trendy new establishments adjacent the theatre district. The rarified air of these select venues ensured that there would be no gawking and minimal fuss at the Queen's arrival in their midst, presumably _incognito_.

When their driver expertly executed a turn onto one of the narrower streets, rather than continuing on the broad thoroughfare leading back to Buckingham Palace, she looked her question at her husband. _Would Mama's presence complicate matters? She could be such a stickler for protocol._

Victoria was handed down by a postilion, and looked around with interest. These discrete excursions were her only opportunity to glimpse the life of the greatest city in the world on near-equal terms. At parades and the myriad appearances to open a bridge, unveil a portrait, dedicate a monument, her presence was precisely scripted and narrowly focused on the duty she was there to perform.

Lord Melbourne showed her a glimpse of something more, something far more fascinating than life within the palace walls which sometimes felt like a hermetically sealed prison. Or a cage, she thought, confining some rare bird brought out for show and then put away once more.

The man who offered his arm was not her husband. A neat, self-effacing gentleman who wore his sandy hair combed carefully back and surveyed his surroundings through cold grey eyes, John Wallace was her personal protection officer that evening. He was nearer in height to his queen than Lord Melbourne, and decades closer to her own age. They would make an unremarkable duo, entering the establishment whose plain varnished door was guarded by a pair of unprepossessing sentries.

His Grace the Duke of Melbourne escorted Marie Louise Victoria, Dowager Duchess of Kent. They were near-contemporaries in age, the Duchess born seven years later than her son-in-law. Victoire, at sixty, still bore traces of her early beauty. The gleaming Spanish-black hair of her youth was now a duller shade of ebony, aided by the application of coloring compounds and her skin carefully powdered. The sharpness of a supercilious expression was relieved by the sparkle of fine dark eyes. In proximity to her daughter's husband, her color heightened and her manner became vivacious, almost playful.

Victoria had felt at a disadvantage to her pretty, charming mother as a girl, even more so as a young adolescent, when the ubiquitous John Conroy made little effort to conceal their inappropriate intimacy. Despite the existence of a wife in Ireland and his daughters ensconced in Victoria's own apartments, he lorded it over them all and Victoria had seethed at the sight of her mother's simpering coquetry.

She had softened considerably as she matured, mending what she could of their relationship and allowing Lord M to exert every effort to make the Duchess feel at ease in her daughter's presence. And still…Victoria still felt a perhaps-irrational irritation of the nerves at each new display of her mother's utter dependence on the attentions of a man.

 _We must accept people as they are, my love,_ Melbourne had cajoled her repeatedly. _For they rarely change. Your mother is who she is, as are you, my darling. And for that I am grateful to her._

Melbourne's equerry had gone ahead and a place was ready for them. The room was dimly lit and luxuriously appointed with the goal of providing as much privacy as could be obtained in a public space. High-backed, curving banquettes sheltered guests, and each of the two dozen tables was attended by its own waiter. Candlelight, rather than the newer gas lighting installed in modern buildings, made islands of warmth in the elegant gloom.

The acoustics were such that sound was absorbed, contained in those velvet banquettes. Even so, as the party of four was led to a prime location far to the rear, Victoria imagined she heard a sudden cessation of conversation as they passed. If it was real, it was only momentary. The other diners, she knew, were all aristocratic, too well-bred to betray any surprise at recognizing the slight, slender figure who passed. Or – and Victoria almost grinned, at the thought – _most_ of the other diners.

Once the Queen's party was seated, the protection officer who had walked with her discretely slipped away to join Melbourne's equerry at a plain table near a green baize door, clearly a service entrance. If it had been Cameron with them, Victoria would have invited him to join them, but the head of her security detail would not deign to inflict upon himself the duty of accompanying her to opera, nor would he voluntarily show himself in their company as a confidante. It was one of his more infuriating quirks, that attitude of assumed servility co-existing with an infuriating, almost presumptuous arrogance.

"What _is_ this place, William?" Victoria recognized the giddiness in her mother's sotto voce question.

"Precisely what it looks like, ma'am. A dining establishment catering to the after-theatre crowd." Melbourne's own melodic voice was rich with amusement.

" _Public_ dining? _Ladies?_ "

Victoria bit her lip and tried for an expression of innocent interest, curious what Melbourne would say and how – if – he would sanitize his response _._

"Why, yes, Duchess, I believe some of those we see are ladies. Look, there is the Countess of Richmond."

Discretion was paramount, but not to the exclusion of those interested in seeing and being seen. On earlier visits to similar venues – Lord M called them clubs, but they were not restricted to a membership roster, in the manner of Brook's or White's or the Reform Club – he had explained to Victoria that such select establishments were fast becoming au courant in the '20s and '30s. They provided, along with exquisite Continental cuisine and the finest of wines from Champagne, Burgundy and the Loire Valley, a sophisticated setting for the _mondaine_ to appear and be admired.

That was the language Melbourne chose now, in answer to Victoire's question. Victoria expected her mother's prominent eyes to betray nothing except ignorance, perhaps confusion. Instead, she saw – with a faint sense of dismay – her mother gaze levelly at Melbourne with an almost jaded look of amusement.

"What, Drina? You think I should be shocked at such things? That I have not lived in the world?" Victoire's thin lips tightened in an infuriatingly _knowing_ smirk – Victoria thought, one could call it nothing else – and she exchanged a conspiratorial look with Melbourne.

"Why do children always imagine their parents are naïve?" she murmured, leaning toward Melbourne.

Victoria could only admire her husband's deft intervention, distracting them both with a humorous _bon mot_ regarding the striking blond wearing a large ostrich feather died purple in her intricate hairstyle. From there, conversation flowed easily under Melbourne's guidance, defusing her own ready annoyance at nearly everything her mother said or did.

When Victoire confided, in a whisper, the most recent news from Brussels – that her uncle had a new mistress, one with whom he appeared to be smitten – Victoria resisted any urge to rush to Leopold's defense. She was, truth be told, more fond of Louise than she was of her meddling uncle, although filial piety required her to treat him with a modicum of respect.

If Melbourne paid her mother more attention than she herself considered necessary or proper, his foot rubbing against her own under the table and the periodic consoling pressure of his hand on her leg – warm, dry and comforting even through the many layers of fabric – reminded her of his devotion.

By unspoken consensus, those ladies bold enough to be seen with lovers – or in a few cases, even husbands – were not to be acknowledged. Their gentlemen escorts had no such compunction, and Melbourne periodically returned a polite nod of greeting from one or another of his many acquaintances. Only he faced the room, with both Victoria and her mother visible in profile. The first time she had gone to a supper club after the opera, Melbourne had made her gasp, then laugh, by explaining that any poorly concealed shock at his appearance would not be due to her royal status, but rather that he had brought his wife.

"Not that I haven't already ruined my reputation as a rake, in that regard. Caro would insist on being taken to clubs far more scandalous than any I would dream of taking you. Were I to appear with a mistress on my arm, nothing remarkable would be noticed. However, a _wife_ …"

Victoria had been perversely pleased that in some small way she might be equal to the daring and reckless first Lady Lamb.

An excellent cold supper was served in the French style, dishes served all at once on a rolling cart placed tableside. She was more accustomed to the Russian fashion of footmen bringing out one course at a time, and the small difference added to an overall sense of adventure. Victoria herself accepted only a portion of lobster with creamy _mayonnaise_ spooned over it, and a small puff pastry. She debated whether to allow her glass to be refilled, and with a gesture indicated a halfway point on the crystal flute.

"William, can you explain _why_ it should be that ladies and gentlemen involved in _la liaison amoureuse_ should want to be seen in all their finery, dining, at evening's end?" Victoria asked, daring her mother to sneer at what was undoubtedly a stupid question. Still, she thought, I want to know.

Melbourne arched a brow, and she saw the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Because they're hungry?" he drawled. His voice, the rough timbre and caressing note of intimacy, sent a little shiver up her spine.

"Silly!" she retorted. "I mean, of course I understand the primary purpose of such affairs. But doesn't it negate that purpose, or at least detract from the time available to indulge in – er – well, to indulge, to get dressed and come out into the City and spend hours in a public place, no matter how discrete?"

"And what do you imagine the primary purpose of such affairs _is_ , Victoria?" he asked, and this time Victoria recognized the gentle, coaxing tones he adopted when guiding her in evaluating some complex issue.

She felt her cheeks warm, keenly aware of the presence of her mother at table, sensing the Duchess's rapt attention. Far too often, Victoria had been mocked and ridiculed – always with a veneer of fond amusement – by the Duchess and Conroy, made to feel young and stupid in comparison with their own presumed superior understanding.

"Obviously, the point of any affair is to engage in carnal relations outside of one's marriage. That is why I wondered –"

"But is it, really?" Melbourne asked. He sounded as though he were considering the notion, turning it over in his mind. "I tend to doubt it. Having been on both sides of such affairs – if you will forgive me, Duchess – I think I know whereof I speak. And without being indelicate, the – er- carnal relations are rarely the point at all."

Victoria saw her mother's interest piqued by the topic and Melbourne's personal admission. With distaste, she realized her mother was titillated rather than outraged.

"What else could it be? Of course, that is the purpose. You are making fun now."

"I am not!' Melbourne protested, laying his palm on his chest theatrically. The other hand had crept under the overhanging linen cloth to find her knee, and he rubbed the edge of his thumb on her leg.

"That particular aspect can fuel the…er…anticipation, and anticipation is a heady sensation, to be sure. But it is also a rather pedestrian activity, in the end, and generally requires far more effort than is realized in reward. But the delicious sense of exploring a new _mind_ , the sort of conversation which is generally more obtainable outside the bedchamber, even the simple pleasure to be found in dressing up and being admired - the knowledge that one's conquest is being envied, perhaps – all of that counts for as much or more than the base carnal act."

He abruptly stopped, meeting Victoria's eyes, then slide his gaze to her mother and _winked_.

"What Drina means, I think, is that gentlemen by their nature have a stronger drive, one that compels them to seek variety. Women do not seek variety. We crave the undivided attention of a single man, and it is only when that is not found in marriage that a woman goes astray. You, my dear William, are an exemplary husband and so Drina cannot imagine seeking comfort elsewhere. But my daughter is like me –"

"I am _not!_ " Victoria was only aware that her voice had risen sharply after she spoke. Melbourne's hand tightened on her leg, as much in warning as to soothe.

"I am not like you in that regard, Mama. Had I not met William, I would have reigned alone, as my predecessor Queen Elizabeth did. Lehzen and I spoke of it often. I do not _crave_ the attention of any _man_ except my husband, and he is my friend, my confidante and my mentor. That is different than wanting a man to dance attendance on me, or give me _undivided_ attention."

Victoria pursed her lips and looked away, signaling that the subject was closed to further discussion. Her mother did not concede without a parting shot.

"Think what you will, Drina, you are _exactly_ like me in that regard. And with Lily it will be the same as with you and I."

The Duchess smiled triumphantly and lifted her glass as if in toast. Once again, as Victoria's temper flared nearly to the boiling point, Melbourne tactfully intervened. In his low gravelly voice he segued from one scandalous _on dit_ to another, until both ladies were once more composed and attentive.

"We have a trip to plan," he said finally, apropos of nothing. "Duchess, we will implore you to give us the benefit of your recent experience. I have not been to Italy since the '20s."

"You still intend to go in August? You will be gone for my birthday," Victoire said, pouting slightly. "Not that I mark the passing years anymore. It's much more agreeable to forget the day."

Victoria refrained from rolling her eyes, recognizing the heavy-handed rebuke under her mother's pretense.

"No, Mama. We are going in early September, when it will be cooler. Parliament won't be back in session until October, unless something unforeseen intervenes. We will celebrate your birthday at Windsor. Unless –" Victoria hesitated, not quite willing to offer the olive branch she knew would please her mother most. "- unless you would prefer to celebrate at Brocket Hall."

The offer pleased her mother enough that she was beaming, and the gesture itself earned Victoria an approving glance from Melbourne. When they rose, he himself draped Victoria's gossamer shawl over her bare shoulders and in the process stroked her clavicle with the tip of one finger. Such a small touch _,_ Victoria marveled, and yet I react so powerfully. _Am I more like Mama than I realize?_ The thought was so unsettling she felt her stomach lurch briefly. The image of her mother simpering, flirting, cooing and fawning over Conroy was so nauseating that she rejected any comparison to the strong, true bond between herself and Lord M. _Never!_

The street was nearly deserted when they stepped out. Their barouche, although unmarked, was still parked where they'd left it – another sign of the resourcefulness of Cameron's plainclothes crew. That they managed to maintain such a prime location adjacent the curb, when nothing outwardly proclaimed their status and those gentlemen guarding the door had doubtless grown fat on bribes from their aristocratic clientele, spoke volumes, Victoria reflected.

There was continued amicable chatter between Victoria, her mother and Melbourne on the return trip, broken at intervals by a sudden sharp command uttered from one of the outriders. London was not nearly as lawless as it had been earlier in the century, but past two o'clock in the morning was prime time for those who sought easy prey in a well-spring, luxurious coach. Each time they heard such an outcry Victoria observed the sudden tensing of Melbourne's frame, the narrowing of his eyes in concentrated readiness for some threat to appear. She was touched by her husband's protectiveness and reassured by the precautions she knew Billy Cameron had taken to secure her safety. The awareness that both men prized her well-being made Victoria feel cherished.

**

"How will poor Aunt Louise cope, if Uncle Leopold has gotten this new mistress with child?"

She and Melbourne had parted briefly, each putting themselves into the hands of a body servant to shed formal outerwear. Victoria sat before her dressing table wearing a nightdress while her maid freed her hair from its many pins. She looked at her husband in the mirror, leaning insouciantly against the bureau, his feet bare and shirttails loose over trousers.

"Hope that it's a more promising issue than those horrible children inflicted upon us at Christmas?" Melbourne answered flippantly, pushing a lock of long curling hair from his eyes.

Victoria nodded to her maid in dismissal, and waited until the girl had gathered brushes, facecloths and the basin of warm rose-scented water in which she had washed.

"Say what you will, I think Aunt Louise truly is fond of Leopold. Or at least – " Victoria considered the matter doubtfully. " – she is a kind, gentle woman who does not deserve to be publicly humiliated. And this Madame Acadie is said to be quite ostentatious in displaying herself and flaunting the connection."

"I suppose," Melbourne murmured disinterestedly. "If so, she had do better to resolve herself to such things. Your Uncle Leopold is hardly going to change his stripes at this late date."

He picked up her hand and turned it over, studying it with a show of great interest. Then he raised it to his lips.

"I know women tend to imagine themselves in the shoes of another, when scandal strikes. That's why they commiserate and gloat simultaneously. _At least it's not me_ is a normal human response to another's trouble. But do not let it concern you, my love. I am not Leopold. Mind you, I don't condemn any man for what he does in his private affairs. But my life has brought me to you, and what we have is…different."

"I know that, William. _Will. Willie._ " Victoria tasted the names, trying them out. "Has anyone ever called you Willie? As a little boy?"

She imagined she saw a brief transient shadow in his grey eyes, and knew. "Ah. Even there, Caro got there first."

Lest he think her distressed, Victoria stood and laid his hand on her hip. She stood on tiptoes and almost reached his mouth, instead landing a kiss on his chin. Melbourne laughed and lifted her, and Victoria gripped his shoulders for balance. She nibbled at his lip, then flicked her tongue to probe at his mouth. He lowered her to her feet and in one fluid movement Victoria slid further down his length, until she knelt before him, privately exulting at her own boldness.

* * *

 

"My precious girl, you are _magnifique_. _My greatest creation_ …" Victoria heard a hint of self-mockery beneath his marveling words, and pushed herself up on one elbow to look Melbourne full in the face.

"It's true. In every way, I am your creation, you know. You have made me what I am, as a queen and a woman. Where I was unsure, doubtful of my own ability to be taken seriously as a sovereign or desired as a woman, you gave me confidence."

She gazed into his eyes, wanting to show him the depths of her sincerity. Satisfied she had done so, Victoria laid her head on Melbourne's chest once more. This time of ease, languid, full of the contentment of perfect intimacy, was what she lived for above all. Well, this, and to hear him speak of great matters of state and make her laugh with his reminiscences and outrageous observations, to see the way in which he looked at her and the gentleness with their children and… _all of it_ , she decided, _every moment of every day that I am blessed with this wonderful man, is what I live for._

"You don't really think I'm just like Mama, do you?" Victoria asked, her breath ruffling the thick mat of furry hair on his chest. "Or that Lily and I will be at odds someday?"

She felt his chest shake with laughter even before she heard it.

"I think you and our daughter are already at odds, because without a doubt you and she have been alike since the day she was born. A tiny termagant with a strong will and temper to match, my fairy princess. _Our_ fairy princess. But…I fear you and Lily must learn sooner rather than later to value each other as I value each of you. I might well be a distant memory by the time she is a young woman, and I would have you love each other for my sake."

Victoria inhaled sharply, at the sudden stabbing pain which his words brought.

"I do try – but I will try harder. I love her, you know that. She can be difficult, and I can't bear to be thwarted, but – I will try harder. She is _your_ daughter, and for that alone I must love her."

Victoria fumbled for the sheet, pushed aside during their lovemaking, and covered her legs and Melbourne's. Then she settled herself comfortably into the crook of his arm and nudged him so he would stroke her hair.

"And Mama-" Victoria heard her own voice tremble, muffled as it was by the tender skin of her husband's side. "Thank you for being kind to Mama, and for showing me how, by example. I will try harder. She is a silly woman in many ways, but she loves me and she loves you as a son."

Once more, Victoria felt the rumbling of a chuckle begin under her cheek.

"Not like a son, perhaps – given I'm older than she is – but as an ally, and the father of her grandchildren, and that is enough. I want you surrounded and strengthened by all who love you, and your mother does that. Now sleep, my love…it is nearly dawn, and I think with the Baroness gone away on holiday, we will be awakened early unless the nursery maids are on guard."


	7. Chapter 7

"Another unseasonably cool, dreary day," Melbourne observed.

He stood, hands behind his back, gazing out at the sprawling expanse of lawn. In the distance he made out figures milling about beyond the Arch. Visitors to the capital city intent, no doubt, on catching a glimpse of the Queen on her weekday morning promenade. Londoners were more blasé about such things, going about their business with no more than a deliberately-audible grumble at any inconvenience or delay.

The summer of 1846, cold and wet as its predecessor, blighted the faint remaining hope of those who struggled to eke out a living in the northern counties. Landlords with their varying sources of investment income fared better, but those whose daily bread depended upon the land were in sore straits. Even more so, those poor devils in Ireland, Melbourne thought. There, absentee landlords eager to rid themselves of the unsightliness presented by tenants starving in their midst, were foreclosing outright and sending a generation of yeoman farmers onto the road seeking any means of survival. A hard thing, and no ready solution presented itself. The more compassionate Ango-Irish and those with ample means provided passage and a stipend that permitted emigration to America. As for the rest…Melbourne shrugged, dismissing the concern as only one of many for which there was no obvious solution.

_Not my concern anymore_ , he rationalized, finding relief in his role as advisor and protector of the Queen, where he was not only not expected, but prohibited, from acting decisively on State matters. In the House the Irish question was nattered over endlessly by any – like Brougham – who sought to make their name out of a miserable situation.

"You will brighten the day considerably, ma'am," he quipped, knowing the warmth of his gaze betrayed him. 

Victoria wore a gown of brilliant blue sateen trimmed with gold fringe. Cut narrower than the previous, short-lived fancy of exaggerated width in ladies' skirts, the silhouette became her small, narrow-shouldered frame. The color, however…Melbourne manfully resisted the urge to smirk until Victoria's own grin overpowered him.

"Yes, darling, it _is_ bright. You know I try to make myself easily visible to the crowds which gather to see me. It's the least I can do. I'm so _small_ …" Her old complaint, Victoria's little nose wrinkling adorably with distaste at her stature.

"Perfectly made, my love, an exquisite porcelain doll. And the gown is perfectly suited to show you off to your subjects."

Victoria had evolved her own taste over time, her fashions chosen partly for the normal feminine reasons and partly for their utilitarian function. She strove to wear gowns of vivid hue on her public outings, if not precisely gaudy then definitely in shades not seen on the pages of _Le Moniteur de la Mode_.

Her brown hair was drawn away from her face, arranged at the back of her head in a waterfall of gleaming curls. The headpiece she wore in lieu of a more old-fashioned bonnet was assuredly copied from the pages of a Paris fashion periodical. Brimless so as to permit her face to be seen, it consisted of little more than a wide stiffened band decorated with flowers and feathers, fastened by a satin ribbon tied at the corner of her jaw.

"Well? Lily will be riding with me this morning. We will take a turn through the Park and come right back. I receive Henry Fox today. Will you be back? He is a particular friend of yours, I think?"

The 4th Baron Holland, son and heir of Melbourne's old friends Henry and Elizabeth Holland, was not precisely a friend, but Melbourne did not correct her.

"I've known him since he was a boy. Unfortunately, he treated his mother with some degree of harshness after Henry died. She did not hesitate to complain of him to her intimates, of whom I was privileged to be one."

"At least you'll have something to talk about," Victoria responded. "I receive him formally, and give Sir George Hamilton his portfolio. There will be some overlap, of course. I can't think Lord Holland is eager to relinquish the palazzo he occupies as our Minister Plenipotentiary to the Grand Duke of Tuscany."

Melbourne shrugged, then left his post by the window and walked around his wife slowly. He took in the details of her toilette, admiring the way in which the blue of her eyes was accentuated by the gown and the shimmering illusion of movement from the fringe outlining each tier of her skirt.

"You look very well, ma'am," Melbourne drawled. Such a simple statement, so inadequate to encompass all that the trim, lithe form before him meant, not only to him, but to the world. It was right and good that she showed herself to her subjects. In a time of want for much of the nation, those who made their way to London on business or pleasure – or, he supposed, from desperation – would find a sense of hope in seeing their Queen was a living flesh-and-blood person. As for their Princess Royale – Melbourne's lips twitched as he thought of his irrepressible little daughter.

"Thank you," Victoria replied primly. She turned her face up to his, lips pursed in anticipation. He kissed her, his own mouth lingering over hers.

"I leave you to your duty, Your Majesty. I'm off to hear the fifth round of speeches in the House on the Irish Bill. Not a word in it about food relief, but they go on and on about suppressing unrest and restricting the movement of the native population. The peasants are to be confined in their houses for an hour after sunset to sunrise. It would be impossible for them to carry on their business as farmers without subjecting them to the chance of transportation imposed as the punishment for this offence."

"And what do we think of this Bill? I take it from your description you are opposed?"

Melbourne had already reached the door, having taken his leave, and briefly wished he had moved move swiftly.

"'What do we think of it', Victoria?" he lifted one brow eloquently. "You may – you _must_ – reach your own conclusion. Have you read the transcripts of the previous days' arguments?"

"I have," Victoria retorted, sounding defensive. Of course she would have, Melbourne knew.

"And which swayed you?"

"Of course there must be law and order, and our people must be safe from any assault on their person and property by ruffians seeking to rob or destroy. But for policemen to have the right to detain anyone only for _appearing suspicious_ , which essentially means for any reason or no reason… I'm not sure what I think at present. Both sides seem to have right on their side."

"Ah, you've reached the crux of the issue and my perpetual dilemma. Just when one finds reason to be swayed by the reasoning of one side, other considerations arise which put the whole thing in doubt again. Easier to let it sort itself out, I've always found. What is meant to happen, _will_ happen. Best to let the thing be until the inevitable makes itself plain.  But above all, we must keep the public order. Without that, government has no reason to exist."

Melbourne took his hat from a waiting footman.

"You want an easy, clear-cut answer, Victoria, and I'm afraid there is rarely such a thing in matters of the public good. Easy enough for those who allow themselves to be moved entirely by their heart and conscience, but without considering practical ramifications…I am fortunate to be above the fray, and go only to get a sense for which way the wind blows."

"You're taking a carriage, Lord M? And of course your protection officers. Sir George Grey believes there are an unusual number of vagrants in the city, as many as several hundred a night sleeping rough in Piccadilly Square alone."

"There are always vagrants to be found in the City, although he's right in that we usually see less of them in summer. I doubt there's much farm work to be had this year. If the do-gooders wouldn't make their rounds bringing food and drink, perhaps our parks and thoroughfares wouldn't make such a tempting abode for the poor and itinerant."

Melbourne looked up at the sound of heels clacking on marble. His daughter skipped along beside her chief governess, a feather bobbing comically atop her bonnet.

"Baroness," he greeted the governess, inclining his head. "Welcome back. I trust you had an enjoyable holiday?"

Louise Lehzen's habitually stern expression softened imperceptibly.

"Yes, Lord Melbourne, thank you. I am glad to be home." She curtsied to Victoria, as much to provide an example to her charge as in deference. Little Princess Elizabeth grasped the frills on her frock and lifted its skirts high enough to provide a glimpse of sagging silk stockings on sturdy legs. She dipped into a fair approximation of the curtsy expected of her and then smiled up at her father.

"Papa, I am riding with Mama today. We will wave and smile at the people. And –" Lily glanced up at Lehzen for confirmation. " _put nothing in our mouths, no matter if it's sweet and tempting._ "

"That is correct, Your Royal Highness. If it's sweets you like, I will bring you some from the City. Show me your best smile and wave," Melbourne prompted. His daughter's face froze in a frightening rictus, all her teeth on display, and she moved her palm back and forth stiffly.

"Very good, darling." He kissed Victoria again, and then bent to cup his daughter's cheek in his palm. Her skin was as smooth as her mothers, but with a light golden hue more like his own – a visible sign of bonnet strings which rarely stayed tied and hats readily discarded. _So beautiful,_ he thought and his heart clenched almost painfully. _And so new and fragile, despite her intrepidness._

Melbourne turned once more to wave at them, mother and daughter in a ravishing tableau, and then ran lightly down the stairs. He would ride through St. James Park, on horseback rather than the safer, stuffier carriage Victoria preferred for him. Her route, he knew, would take her down Constitution Hall and past the crowds which generally lined both sides of the Arch. Wellington's equestrian statute provided shelter and a focal point for those rough sleepers whose presence was a blight on the scene. By necessity, Victoria's weekday promenade would take her past them and into Hyde Park. Depending on the business which awaited her at the Palace, she would drive at least as far as the Serpentine before turning around and retracing her route. Victoria and Lily would ride in an open landau, the better to be seen, to smile and wave at the lower classes and exchange greetings with members of the more influential merchant and professional classes.

If he had his way he would spare Victoria even the sight of unwashed, unprepossessing vagrants and prostitutes of the lowest type, but it was impossible in the crowded confines of the metropolis. He could only hope that her innate piety would overrule a stern sense of duty nudging her to take action. The poor, as Scripture said, would always be with us, part of the divine plan…surely a source of comfort, even gratification, if one were able to believe.

* * *

The Lamb and Flag was one of the oldest public houses in the Covent Garden area of London. Melbourne headed there first, by pre-arrangement, for a rendezvous with the party which would accompany him to the House.

The pub was so crowded he was met by a solid wall of sturdy backs in broadcloth and corduroy. Melbourne hesitated long enough for his nondescript companion to make a path.

Charles Dickens was seemingly a regular, to judge by the side room in which he sat at table. With him were his wife and sister-in-law, a young man introduced as an aspiring parliamentary reporter and George Von Wettin.

The new Members' chamber in Westminster, only recently occupied after lengthy construction delays, incorporated visitors' galleries and a private box, not unlike those at the opera, bespoke for visiting dignitaries. Melbourne preferred to slide into one of the unoccupied back bench seats. As a peer, he had long since been relegated to the other side of the House; as a nonvoting, apolitical _minister without portfolio_ he was tacitly welcomed, or at least tolerated, in the Commons as well. Once it was seen that he would not interfere, would refrain from showing any sign of favor or displeasure, his became a familiar figure. His interests were eclectic, and he made sure to venture into the chamber during even tedious debates on the most mundane matters so that his arrival would not be taken as any indication of the Crown's particular interest.

Dickens had made a special request in the spirit of unspoken pro quid pro, and so Melbourne had contacted George. Von Wettin was able to arrange discrete entry into the dignitaries' box. There, Dickens could bring his wife and her young sister to hear the Irish Bill debated while his journalistic protégé learned the background color and levity required to render political coverage palatable.

Melbourne declined to partake in the luncheon Dickens ordered. Public house fare was unappetizing at best, the mutton he loathed along with fatty pork and beans swimming in pot liquor. Even the lure of kidney pie did not tempt him to risk another bout of long-dormant dyspepsia, and the recollection of his officious little wife's dietary vigilance made him smile.

At a quarter to one they finally departed, Melbourne, his guardian and George on horseback and the others in a hired hackney carriage. Von Wettin must be prospering in his architectural trade, Melbourne judged by the quality of his mount and the cost of stabling in the City.

The argument they had come to hear was preceded by several less noteworthy speeches. Sir Robert Peel offered his brief rejoinder to a motion advancing the interest of establishing a government in New Zealand. Melbourne listened disinterestedly while George described the modernity of the new building in excruciating detail, his interest caught only briefly by the astute questions of the younger Miss Dickens. Mrs. Catherine Dickens added her mite, in slightly slurring tones, and her husband grimaced, then as quickly wiped his expression smooth. Melbourne understood, and would have conveyed his sympathetic understanding if not for concern that to do so would only increase the other man's discomfort.

He attended with slightly more interest when Mr. Rich forcefully spoke on a pending appointment to the deanery of Windsor. Several acts and amendments had been passed on Victoria's authority, for the repression of non-resident appointments, in an attempt to curb the unfortunate habit of worthies becoming Deans of parishes and institutions into which they never stepped foot. _The liturgical counterpart of Rotten Boroughs_ , Melbourne had called it when he recommended Victoria sign the measures into law. And yet here they were, squabbling over the same issue nearly a decade later. It confirmed Melbourne's belief that the more government attempted to interfere, the less effect such intervention had.

Sir Charles Wood, Chancellor of the Exchequer, spoke next on the docket, exhorting the Members at great length – and with considerable, even suspicious, vigor, Melbourne observed – on the Sugar Duties. The Sugar excises were due to expire on 5 July and Wood accused certain unnamed ministers of allowing that deadline to draw perilously close, in order to press for a short-term extension that would risk the livelihoods of importers and plantation owners alike. Melbourne felt the beginnings of a head-ache and kneaded his brow surreptitiously. He remembered what he had disliked most about his days in government, for all that he had enjoyed himself tremendously overall. It was _this_ , _an excess of enthusiasm and robust verbosity._

Miss Hogarth, now Georgie, laughed at his observation. When her sister Kate joined in, laughing loudly enough that heads turned below, the younger woman whispered something to her brother-in-law.

Charles rose and Melbourne saw his shoulders slumped wearily. He bent over his wife and urged her to her feet. The two of them made their way out of the box and down a back stairway, leaving Melbourne and Georgiana to hear the proceedings.

"He'll put her into a hack and send her home," she said softly, her eyes lowered. "Kate has always been high-strung and unstable. Our oldest sister Mary keeps house for them and most often keeps Kate's flights in check."

"No need to explain to _me_. My wife was similarly afflicted." When the young woman's eyes flew open wide, he realized his mistake. "My _first_ wife," he added.

"Poor man!" she exclaimed sympathetically. "Charles does not find the consolation he deserves in marriage. I am glad if my presence is some solace."

Melbourne thought he understood. If this vivacious young woman had been a sister of Caro's and under _their_ roof back in the day, he might well have been grateful for the solace of her company as well. Relieved, he felt in greater charity with her and exerted himself to entertain with snippets of old gossip about the men who strode back and forth on the floor below. She was a bright, attentive audience for his meandering reminiscences but when Brougham stood to speak, Melbourne found himself glad of the respite. It was excessively tedious to meet the demands of that much youthful exuberance.

Dickens returned with only minutes to spare before the Earl of Lincoln moved for the resumption of debate on the Protection of Life in Ireland. The others sat up eagerly and Melbourne shifted imperceptibly back in his chair, hoping he might nap unobserved.

* * *

It was near six o'clock when Melbourne wearily trudged up the Grand Staircase. He was begrimed with the inevitable dirt of London and wanted to make himself presentable before joining Victoria in the drawing room. _With whom were they dining?_ He cast his mind back to that morning. _Ambassador? Charge affairs? Minister Plenipotentiary?_ Henry Holland. The name presented itself. Of course, Henry and Elizabeth's stiff-necked son. Well, he would be a stickler for punctuality and doubtless arrive by eight at the latest.

"Baines! Baines, water and my shaving kit please. Lay out my evening –"

"Everything is waiting, Your Lordship." The valet was waiting in his dressing room, standing at attention as though he had not moved since that morning. A kettle had been filled from the gleaming copper appliance, and Baines poured it into a basin already half-full.

Melbourne rolled his shoulders to assist the valet in removing his coat, untied his neckcloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He sat and removed stockings and shoes, frowning at the thick coating of dust.

"Has she gone down?" he asked absently.

It would be a fine thing to steal a few minutes with Victoria. Even as a very young woman she had had an innate dignity, and that dignity lent her a _stillness_ that was at once soothing and exhilarating. She had never once been as – well, as tediously loquacious as Georgiana Hogarth. A fine young woman to be sure, and doubtless her liberal sentiments did her great credit, but the jarring outspokenness of her principles quite detracted from any charm she might otherwise possess. And she had no small talk, none of the inconsequential banter which young women of his own class learned in their mothers' drawing rooms. Victoria was peerless, of course – and he would think so if she had not favored him with her hand in marriage – but even the dowdiest and least promising of Em's girls had more social graces than the Hogarth girl's stridently middle-class manner.

Melbourne blinked in surprise at the sudden anxiety on his valet's face.

"Baines? Has Her Majesty gone down yet?" he asked again.

"Her Majesty has – I believe she had the headache and is resting. Her dresser is with her, and Baroness Lehzen. She – Her Majesty, that is – left word that she would join your lordship in the Yellow Drawing Room and asked that you precede her."

The words were spoken in peculiar cadence, and even the slight jerk of his valet's chin belied the message he conveyed.

"Baines? I will look in on the Queen now, I think. If you must, you may alert them that I am coming."

"Not at all, your lordship. I think it best if you go right on in."

The Queen's Bedchamber, it was called, but in reality it was theirs despite the polite fiction which maintained husband and wife slept in separate quarters. It was nearly full-dark when Melbourne edged open the door. He saw that the heavy brocade draperies which flanked each window had been pulled together to block incoming light. Victoria's dark head stood out against the white of the linen pillow covers, hair loosened and streaming down bare arms. She had been undressed to her undergarments, modesty preserved by a cashmere shawl.

"Migraine, sweetheart?" Melbourne whispered, coming forward. Victoria kept her face averted, so that the single image flashing through his mind was that of the young woman with whom he'd spent the afternoon. Ludicrous! He told himself. We were in company, in the _House_ of bloody _Commons_ , and I was bored to tears. But guilt is inevitably part of the emotional repertoire of any marriage, and so it was written plainly, albeit briefly, on his face.

Baroness Lehzen looked at him curiously before turning toward Victoria. She had been applying cool compresses dipped in rosewater, and the sweet scent filled Melbourne's nostrils.

"Drina," he heard Lehzen say in her most stern governess's voice. She took hold of Victoria's little pointed chin and gently turned her head.

Victoria's right eye was swollen nearly shut. In the gloom, he could not make out the color but Melbourne was willing to bet the distended skin would soon be black, if it wasn't already, That side of her forehead sported an orange-sized lump that disappeared into her hairline.

Looking at him directly through her one good eye, Victoria's lips twisted into a rueful smile.

"Don't I look a fright, Lord M. Sir Henry will be quite shocked. I'm sure the Venetian beauties to whom he is accustomed don't appear at dinner in this state."

_-to be continued very soon; we can't bear to leave William in suspense too long-_

1 For those of you who know what's coming, yes, I have accelerated this particular event by four full years. Part of the "Butterfly Effect" of our alternative history.

 

                                                                                                                                                


	8. Chapter 8

**Lady Louisa Cavendish**

**3 Upper Eccleston Street SW**

**Harewood House, Leeds, Yorkshire**

 

If ever I have yearned to have you close by it is now, little sister, when I have so much to relate. As soon as your health allows, pray impress upon Lord George the urgency with which you desire a return to London. By late summer I expect I might be travelling – where I cannot say – and before then I long to speak to my little sister.

Let me hasten to say, all here are well.  I fear the news will have reached Leeds long before this little note, of the most recent in an unfortunate list of madmen determined to make their name known by assaulting the person of the Queen. Even as I write this, Her Majesty’s spirits are undimmed and the little princess likewise full of excitement at what seems to her child’s eyes a marvelous adventure. Let me tell you how it really was.

Before I begin to describe the events of – was it only this morning? how time plays tricks on one during eventful times! – let me tell you truly how it's been to return to Court.

It suits me, to be at the very center of the civilized world. There! How's that for pretentious, self-aggrandizing boastfulness? I have paid my penance in the country, which I loathe for its quietude as much as ever I have, and even learned from my mistakes. I pride myself on an ability to accurately assess the traits and characteristics of those around me. You, who know better than anyone how it was for me in Papa's household, cannot deny that is truth. To my eternal chagrin I underestimated a certain female of our acquaintance, thinking – as I am wont to do – that the fresh appeal of youth, and apparent lack of subtlety in one who has ever been sheltered and cossetted, spelled ignorance. A sharp tongue and gift for repartee are not the only indicators of worldly understanding. I see myself for a self-deluded fool in imagining anyone can know what understanding exists between a husband and wife.

 _He_ is as he always was, the most charming of men, that charm the outward sign of a warm, tender heart and the keenest of minds. What I imagined at one time was a particular friendship between us, beyond the bounds of mere pleasant social acquaintance. Never more – I was never lost to all sense of who and what I am, and what I never was, lacking beauty and charm, unable to inspire the stronger emotions in a gentleman – but at least particular friends. Perhaps such a bond existed in fact, or perhaps only in my mind, but in either case in abusing my position of trust I risked permanent exile from Court. Can you imagine me, consigned to a life listening to Edward talk of nothing but his cattle? So now I am careful to do what I do best in making myself useful to Her Majesty's household. I arrange things. That was the one credit Pere Lascelles gave me, and Harewood never ran as smoothly as when I was in charge.

If I digress, it is only because I want you to understand how it is. I miss your company, little sister. So –

We set out on our usual turn about the Park. Her Majesty's route is published in the Court Circular, these airings the opportunity offered the least of her subjects to catch a glimpse of their sovereign. (It is the modern thing, to show off royalty as ordinary people, a wholesome image of British family life. I withhold judgment and defer to my betters, but part of me is skeptical of the end result. Where is the reverence and awe, if one's sovereign is seen as no different than a banker's wife?)

It was my turn to accompany Her Majesty and the Princess Royale. Her Majesty was to make an appearance in Covent Garden. We would have gone the usual way, down the Mall, but Her Majesty directed us to turn into Hyde Park so she could show herself to the people. As you know, past Trafalgar Square the Peelers keep idlers to a minimum.

This – this beast, whom they tell us is named Robert Pate – stood out from the crowd only because he was quite dandified, in a flashy sort of way. Still, there was no reason to take alarm – he sauntered up to the side of the carriage whilst Her Majesty was receiving well-wishes and we suspected nothing untoward until he raised his walking stick overhead.

Louisa, the crack! The sound! I was seated behind her when the madman wounded her previously, and did nothing. This time Her Majesty reacted with the greatest possible presence of mind, gripping the shaft of that cane as he drew it back in preparation for another blow. I took hold of the creature's arm and our little Princess sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his thumb!! By then the crowd had seen what was happening and surrounded him on all sides. He wrenched himself free and swung once more, that second blow doing no further damage to our Queen as it glanced off Princess Elizabeth's arm.

In the melee that followed, our protection officers were forced to intervene at the Queen's command, for the people would have torn the bully limb from limb in their fury. Her Majesty appeared uninjured, and she reassured her loyal subjects and thanked them for their assistance. She directed the Guard to surrender their prisoner to the constabulary for detention and then rode on with the greatest aplomb to cheers from the people.

Only when we were out of sight did she entreat me to tidy her face, and it was then I saw blood. Still, she insisted we not deviate from our intended itinerary and so I did my best to see to her appearance. All the way to Covent Garden we discussed the event, finding great satisfaction and relief of nervous agitation in the telling. I was quite impressed by her courage – why is it I am always surprised by evidence of strength in other females, while I rarely doubt my own? – and confess I shared her evident exhilaration at our own agency in fighting off the attacker. It was only when the little Princess grew unusually plaintive and whiney – she is a miniature tigress who roars far more often than she cries – that we noted the distention of her limb. That, finally, was the Queen's impetus for directing her guards to take her home with all possible speed.

The Queen permitted the physician to examine her after he had bound the princess's arm. Baroness Lehzen took over nursing duties and, once relegated to the status of patient, Her Majesty's energy drained away and she felt the full effects of her battering. I have often found that coddling is detrimental to resilience and in this case my belief was vindicated. From fierce and even ebullient when she saw herself as a heroine, HM lapsed into teary indolence and it was in such a state that Lord M found her.

I will not, cannot, describe to you his initial reaction. In his defense, Her Majesty did look quite the worse for wear. If the goose-egg sized bump on the top of her head could not be readily seen, the puffed flesh around her right eye and ragged split skin down her forehead were gruesome enough.

His expression was one of horror, and in front of my eyes this so-handsome man aged visibly. As the color drained from his face, his features seemed to collapse so that he looked like walking death, a nonagenarian who would expire before us. Just as quickly as it went, the color came rushing back and then his face was a mask of rage with no outlet, his person vibrating with the boundless vigor of youth. I imagined that just then he might be on the verge of rushing off to slay the madman with his own hands.

If I wax poetic, I assure you, Louisa, my pragmatism – and, I confess, my protective tenderness for the man – had not left me. I knew without doubt what I must do, since once again she could not think of him and someone must do so. Or, to be fair, perhaps it was only that a husband's natural protectiveness would make him discount her reassurances, but there was one to whom he would attend without doubt. My feet propelled me out of the room and when I returned I had the little princess in hand.

Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth did not disappoint. All her own ebullience had returned and she flung herself at her father, words tumbling over one another in excitement. In less time than it takes to recount, Lord M's color had returned to normal and his apparent impulse to rush out in search of the villain was thwarted by his daughter's obvious pleasure.

The little one's eyes were bright and she showed off the gauze binding on her broken arm with great glee, telling her father in gory detail how she had _bit the bad man and made him bleed, didn't I, Mama_? and, in her version, single-handedly disarmed him. Her own broken bone she considered no more than visible proof of her bravery. And Mama hit him too, and Emma, Lily added generously. She even extended her good arm to pat my hand approvingly, then peered at her mother.

 _Why you cry, Mama? Tell Papa we were brave! Papa, tell Mama not to cry. I bump my head lots, and if you let Papa kiss your booboo it will feel all better_ and more such jubilant childish nonsense, which had the result intended. The strain evident in his eyes ebbed and his features resumed their expression of lazy good humor once more. Only a keen observer (which I admit to be) would note a palpable tenderness which coexisted with simmering anger, the one directed at _her,_ the other at – whom? The madman? Those who had failed to protect her? When HM sat up in bed and irritatedly pushed Lehzen's hand aside I exchanged a glance with the Baroness. Clearly it was time we took our leave.

That good woman took the basin of rosewater with which she had been bathing the Queen's face, and I bobbed a curtsy, intending to follow. Some chance remark of the Queen's made me pause.

"We did well, don't you think, Emma? And Covent Garden saw us on schedule. Emma, tell Lord M how –" and just like that, she engaged me and together we retold the event in excruciating, even perhaps exaggerated, detail. The next half-hour passed quite agreeably, considering those events which had preceded it. The four of us somehow ended up seated on the big royal bed together, like girls sharing confidences at boarding school.

Part of the satisfaction to be found in the aftermath of unpleasant ordeal comes from telling of the saga to an interested listener. Lord M did not disappoint; he was an excellent listener, exclaiming without interruption, his expression suitably shocked, intrigued and amused at appropriate points. At intervals, when the Queens stamina flagged and she rested her head against his breast, her strong grip on my hand kept me from making a strategic retreat. The little princess sprawled across their legs with her head in my lap and I found myself stroking her silky hair as though she were one of the lapdogs that scampered freely throughout the Royal apartments. She had by all indications finally given in to weariness, and one thumb was in her mouth, the four fingers of that hand cupped protectively. I disliked children, including my own until they reached the age of reason, and so the warmth this overprivileged, overindulged little mite roused in me was unfamiliar and not entirely welcome.

Clearly, we both told Her Majesty, there was every reason to postpone the dinner with Sir Henry Holland. I might have little patience with female vapors and invalidism, but even I did not begrudge a night of rest for one who very nearly had her skull split. Her Majesty would not have it.

"I must be _seen_ to be all right, William. It's what you would say at any other time." She winced when she sat fully upright, but upright she sat, only to meet his gaze levelly as she recited a phrase he often used in the early days.

Melbourne answered with a muttered retort, smiling somewhat ruefully at being rebutted with one of his own flippant sayings. Her conduct and the brave face she put upon it had settled his nerves, but he could not resist asking her repeatedly whether she was sure she was all right. I smothered an impatient sigh. Having never been coddled by parent or spouse, I allowed myself to resent it in others more fortunate. For better or worse, I served both of them. More, as much as I could be given our circumstances, I was their friend once more.

And that, dear Louisa, is as full and dispassionate a recounting of our recent adventure as I can provide. For more, and more personal observations than I will risk committing to paper, you must wait until we are together again.

 

Always with love,

Your sister,

Emma

_PostScript: Dearest Louisa, just another line to tell you the latest. Lord Grey, the Home Secretary, called to tell Lord M the identity of the attacker. He is not one of the homeless riffraff fomenting revolution or drinking themselves into a blind stupor. He is the Queen’s own age, born at Christmas 1819 to a wealthy merchant who became Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire and High Sheriff of Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire. Robert Pate, for such is the villain's name, served in the 10th Dragoons until he sold his commission just a few months ago. Since then he’s been in lodgings in Piccadilly, not the sort of district for a man down on his luck. The airs he gave himself on his strolls around the park made the rough sleepers under Wellington's statute quite willing to tell all they knew. In fact it was some of them who were most eager to give the man a sound thrashing for his assault on the Queen. - EP_


	9. Chapter 9

Melbourne had spent another afternoon hearing the last of the speeches in the House before he prorogued Parliament on the Queen's behalf. Dickens had caught up with him in the lobby and introduced him to his companion, a reporter from the rival Evening Review. The two journalists invited themselves along to St. James Street, where they unhesitatingly followed Melbourne into his club. For the price of their dinner and some inside gossip from the garrulous Palmerston, Charles insisted they be his guests at the theatre. "Just what you need, Melbourne," Dickens had coaxed, and when Palmerston added his own persuasiveness Melbourne had guessed the nature of the outing.

**

He had gone into the City to please Victoria. She had insisted he go about his business, and in truth he felt superfluous hovering about uselessly. His _petite reine_ had been on her dignity, refusing to show weakness outside of her own apartment. Within she threw herself onto the tender care of her old governess, turning him away to spare him, Melbourne suspected, the sight of her bouts of nausea and the throbbing headache which tormented her. At least, he hoped that was all; surely she was neither so vain nor insecure as to hide her swollen, discolored face from him. No, he decided, not that, remembering the sweet mewling sound she made when he gingerly cupped her uninjured cheek in his palm and stroked the other with the side of his thumb. She had mirrored his gesture with her own, one little hand stroking his face, and her good eye wide and warm with sympathetic affection.

"It does you no good, or her either, to torment yourself with guilt. But you're a _man_ , so I suppose we can expect nothing less. Still, try not to let _her_ see it so she does not think she must put on a brave face to spare _you_." Emma had said that much and no more before clamping her thin lips together. It was sound advice, he knew instantly.

Their brief encounter outside Victoria's bedchamber had been reminiscent of their old, easy rapport, a refreshing surprise. Melbourne realized how very much he had missed Lady Portman's sassy outspokenness. At Court he was surrounded by females, but none with the matter-of-fact concern for his well-being that a sister provided. Emily would not accept any position, so he was left to his own devices.

_Unfortunately, Emma is not Emily_ , he reminded himself, _and her affections must not turn from fraternal camaraderie into something warmer._ He had avoided those complications even before his second marriage, conducting his _affaires d'amour_ with strong, intelligent, sophisticated women whose hearts were no more engaged than his.

**

Novelty provided its own patina of glamor, Melbourne mused, a mirage which faded quickly. Behind a gilded auditorium the backstage area was a narrow warren of shabby threadbare curtains and unpainted board partitions. Performers trudged wearily past, showing no surprise and little curiosity as they went about their business. The few nominally private "dressing rooms" were allotted to the headliners. Privacy was sold and bartered, and any performer fortunate enough to receive well-heeled admirers was expected to distribute largesse generously.

The ironically named Royal Coburg, its original marquee still boasting that name despite a more recent change to the Royal Victoria, had been filled to overflowing with young costermongers and even sweeps and dustmen, all taking rowdy part in the performances, had been their first stop of the night. From Waterloo Road they moved on to the Coal Hole, Evans' Music Hall in Covent Gardens and Green Gate Tavern on London's City Road – Melbourne had lost all track of time and regarded the resulting disorientation oddly pleasant. He had carelessly agreed to this tour of inspection after some cajoling by Charles, to which Palmerston had enthusiastically contributed his own persuasion. Their small party consisted of his brother-in-law, Charles Dickens and one of Dickens' cronies.

_You'll look out for Lord M, Billy_ , Victoria had said and Cameron, grinning from ear to ear, had spent the past several hours slouching along behind Melbourne and the others. Cameron's stature alone was sufficient to dissuade the ubiquitous pickpockets and beggars, and his lazy good nature and the colorful stories he told rendered his presence unobjectionable to the others.

Exquisitely tailored swells were a common sight, slumming in the music halls which generally catered to an entirely different class. Visiting these rough, rowdy venues was considered another foible of the aristocracy. The taverns, saloons and supper rooms were noisy and the audiences unruly, often throwing things at the performers. Some years – decades, perhaps – had passed since Melbourne had last ventured into such seedy environs. Once past his callow, hot-blooded youth, an innate fastidiousness had emerged in Melbourne which made flagrant debauchery less erotic than it was distasteful.

Half-clothed females sashayed past to the delight of his companions. Melbourne found himself idly comparing the charms of sateen-corseted dancers to those of the wife he had at home. _Home_ being Buckingham Palace, a notion which still had the power to shock, even after nearly a decade. And _wife_ being the anointed queen, an even more improbable notion to which he would never entirely become accustomed. That _wife_ a lovely young woman four score years his junior, with a fresh complexion precisely the texture of fine velvet under his hands, upright breasts that fit into his hands as though they were made to rest nowhere else, and a pert derriere that – Melbourne saw Cameron looking at him curiously over the top of a showgirl's thickly pomaded head and grinned sheepishly.

Victoria's apparent resilience had crumbled that first night. She showed all the signs of concussive injury from the knock on her head, vomiting intermittently and plagued by bouts of dizziness. She stubbornly refused to stay in bed, determined to show herself in an effort to avoid widespread concern. It was a resolution quietly applauded by Home Secretary Lord Grey and John Russell, her Prime Minister. The Corn Laws lately repealed had thus far done little to alleviate famine in the north, Karl Marx preached his socialist mantra in coffee houses and Irish agitators harangued passersby at every prominent intersection in London. Her ministers had hastened to the Palace, and Victoria put down her foot, literally stomping a little satin slipper, at the mere suggestion she retreat from public view.

They had received Henry Holland as planned, and if Victoria sped through the twelve courses at dinner expeditiously she had regaled her guests with a highly entertaining description of what she flippantly referred to as a _minor disturbance_. Afterward, they had adjourned to the Yellow Drawing Room where one of her ladies obliged with a neatly timed thirty-minute harpsichord recital that conveniently made conversation redundant.

Emma Portman, with her usual efficiency, had arranged it all, and conspired with Melbourne's sister. Emily had obediently cancelled her own plans, and with Palmerston in tow appeared just before they went in to dine. Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, had expansively monopolized the table, and they had whisked the man off to Cambridge House before ten o'clock, allowing Victoria to retire without excuses.

Melbourne found her retching miserably into a bowl, pleading for the dose of medicine her physician denied her. He had sternly warned the Queen that in cases of suspected concussion laudanum would be ineffective, even counterproductive, and she could do no more than wait out the throbbing pain.

Melbourne had stood helplessly by while Baroness Lehzen tended to her charge with tender competence, holding Victoria's long hair when she vomited, wiping her face with a cool cloth afterward. Victoria clung to her governess, as she had during bouts of childhood illness, and fretfully turned away from her husband. He had retreated to the far end of Buckingham's east wing, where Cameron was waiting, and harangued the big man until his own fury abated.

Billy only listened as Melbourne accused him of incompetence, cowardice and even treachery, nodded understandingly while Melbourne demanded to be brought before the assailant so he could judge for himself Pate's competency and thrash him as he so deserved. When there was nothing left to say, and no breath with which to say it, he had clapped Melbourne's shoulder and shoved a large glass of whiskey into his hand.

When Melbourne returned to their apartment all was silent. He saw Baroness Lehzen in his accustomed place beside Victoria. She herself looked scarcely older than a schoolroom miss, swathed in a white cotton nightdress and curled against her nurse's breast. The older woman's face was relaxed in sleep. Melbourne had backed quietly out of the doorway and settled himself in the sitting room, vaguely determined to keep a protective vigil.

**

"William Lamb? The famous, distinguished Mr. Lamb?"

Melbourne's attention was abruptly captured.

"Lord Melbourne, Dolly," Charles chided playfully at the same time Melbourne smirked. "William, this is _the_ Miss Dolly Lane."

The buxom young woman was obviously accustomed to admiration. She held out her hand like a Duchess, expecting Melbourne to bow over it.

"Did you come to hear me sing?" the woman asked bluntly.

Melbourne shrugged. "I came at Mr. Dickens' behest. He is, I believe, an aficionado. You had best reserve your attentions for him."

The space they stood in was so tiny it could barely be called a room. The air was thick with the mingled odors of powder and cosmetic paint, perspiration and too many unclothed bodies packed into too close an area. Melbourne felt his nose twitch and rubbed it vigorously.

"Billy," he murmured, looking around. Cameron had remained in the narrow passage beyond the curtain. Two females, identical twins by appearance, had attached themselves to him. Palmerston had disappeared, and there was no sign of Mr. Dickens' colleague.

Melbourne stifled a sigh. It would be a long, tedious night.

**

"Did you have fun?" Victoria asked groggily, her voice thick with sleep. She was not alone; Lehzen was in a chair she had drawn up beside the bed. Melbourne's glance went from one to the other. Victoria saw, and her own gaze flickered over her governess's form with great affection.

"Lehzen," she whispered. "Lehzen, Lord M is here. You must go to bed. You have been working too hard."

Melbourne offered his own arm to this woman he both respected and admired, for her care of Victoria and her unwavering devotion to those he loved best in the world. Victoria tilted her head, and her lips turned up in a smile which was full of love.

When he'd returned, having escorted the Baroness to her own chamber and bid her good night, Victoria had turned back over onto her side. He kicked off his own footwear and tugged himself free of his coat and waistcoat. In shirt and trousers, he laid down beside his wife and arranged his body around hers.

"You smell good," he said in her ear. She had a natural fresh scent, enhanced by the lightest floral fragrance of her hair-wash. _Clean_ , he thought. _Clean and good._

"Did you have fun?" Victoria asked again. She was squirming her backside into position against his thighs, such a delicious sensation he nearly forgot that he must not respond.

"Mmmm," he moaned into the mass of dark waving hair. "It is so very good to be back here with you. There is nowhere I would rather be."

Melbourne heard wakefulness in the sound of her breathing, and felt her fingers dance down his thigh.

"You are still dressed, Lord M. I hope you are not leaving me again. I love Lehzen dearly but I would rather have _you_ in my bed."

"High praise indeed," Melbourne quipped, shifting his hips so that she would not feel the importunate evidence of his arousal. "Shall I call Baines and make myself ready for sleep."

"We don't need Baines, darling. I can help you undress."

Victoria rolled over to face him and began unbuttoning his shirt. A hank of hair hung over the side of her face and she pushed it absently back. The swelling around her right eye had grown worse, and even in the darkness he could see the darkening discoloration from brow to cheekbone. This evidence of the violence inflicted upon her, his precious girl, this tiny woman, defenseless despite her courage, extinguished his burgeoning arousal at once.

"My darling!" he gasped, unable to contain his horror.

The physician had stitched the gash on her forehead to close the wound. Such precautions might minimize the inevitable scarring, but at present thick black knotted threads in a line three inches long only added to the gruesome visage.

"That bad?" Victoria asked needlessly, her lip trembling. "Of course it is. I am hideous. But perhaps in the dark…"

"Victoria! My love! Your beautiful face is injured and it hurts me to think of it, but you are still beautiful and still _you_. I only – don't want to risk hurting you further."

Melbourne regretted his body's response to the emotion he felt. Unfortunately, male biology would not allow him to feign what he did not feel. He anticipated a look of hurt, and saw instead Victoria's lovely full lips pucker in a pout.

"You won't hurt me, William. You can't." Her voice was pitched low, an intimate sultry sound, and when she spoke he could feel the warmth of her breath.

"And there is much which _isn't_ injured. Feel?" Victoria took his hand and laid it on her breast, arching her back so she pressed against his palm. "Touch me. Love me. Make me think of something besides my aches and pains."


	10. Chapter 10

Victoria gave her reflection a final, critical examination and nodded with satisfaction. She'd chosen her costume with care. The mocha silk taffeta of her gown was an unusual of light brown tinged with a hint of blue. Morning dresses were customarily brighter and made of simpler fabric, but she liked the touch of _gravitas_ suggested by this choice. Ruched apricot chiffon provided a pop of summer color.

Victoria's hand went to the modest antique cameo suspended from a velvet ribbon, nestled in the hollow of her throat. It was a modest piece, handed down from Lady Elizabeth Melbourne, offered apologetically by Emily Temple. _Just a bauble, Your Majesty, but William thought you might like something of his mother's._ The plain necklace, scarcely more than a charm, small gold earrings in her lobes and her wedding band completed her toilette.

Miss Skerrett had suggested several ways of fixing her hair that might conceal the worst of the damage to her face. Victoria had dismissed them all out of hand and asked for a simple chignon at the back of her head, her dark hair brushed back so her face was on full display.

_It is what it is, and I will own it. Concealment would be weakness and vanity._

The very evening of the assault on her person, Lords Grey and Russell had presented themselves along with Lord Cottenham, Sir Robert Peel and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Victoria had insisted on receiving them herself – with Melbourne at her side, of course – to demonstrate her resiliency. Their stated concern was for her well-being, but all present understood that far greater issues were at stake.

Parliament was due to adjourn within the month; Victoria questioned Cottenham on the legality and wisdom of arbitrarily proroguing them out of hand. Peel, as representative of the opposition, had no complaints at the prospect and Russell embraced the notion with alacrity. Cottenham, as Lord Chancellor, said that while it might remind some of past royal high-handedness, if the new First Lord of the Treasury and Peel, on behalf of the House of Commons, put it out that the idea was theirs, there should be no real objection.

"Very well. Lord Melbourne will represent us and declare this session at an end."

Russell exuded relief from every pore, an emotion shared by the others. Plainly, Victoria thought, they feared me putting myself on display. Whether the sight of my bruises provoked sympathy or derision, neither faction relishes using this attack to fuel partisanship. The Irish Bill was still on the table, but no one believed that another round or three of speeches pro and con would affect the outcome.

"I see no harm in allowing it to go to vote tomorrow. Nothing new has been said by anyone, for a fortnight past. Gentlemen?"

And so it had been decided. In the immediate aftermath of a violent attack on the person of the Queen, it was essential to downplay the incident. Even Lord M had failed to protest the propriety of acting in any capacity that even hinted at an usurpation of royal prerogative. That was a small unspoken victory in Victoria's ongoing mission to elevate her husband to at least the public status his predecessor. On the first day after the spring session of Parliament for 1846 had been adjourned, key members of the Queen's Privy Council gathered unofficially at Buckingham Palace.

Victoria embarked on the short walk from her private apartments to the State rooms unattended. The Queen rarely walked alone and every hall page she passed blinked with surprise before saluting.

The entrance to the Council chamber – really a suite of rooms in an apartment of its own – was guarded by a scarlet-coated sentry. A fresh-faced young footman stationed at the inner door rapped sharply and announced her in a voice that came out shockingly deep and resonant. Victoria's expression softened momentarily as she favored him with a small smile, and the boy's cheeks reddened with pleasure.

Seven gentlemen were present, including Lord Melbourne. All seasoned courtiers, they rose in unison when she entered and bowed with precisely calibrated depth, depending upon their own rank and position. Victoria surveyed them to see who had remained in town an extra day, when country estates, yachts and seaside retreats beckoned.

The Marquess of Abercorn, the Viscount Canning, the Duke of Bedford, the Earl Spencer, Lord Fitzalan-Howard, and the ubiquitous Charles Greville were present. Victoria knew them each well, their prejudices and ambitions, and could shrewdly assess where their loyalties lay thanks to Lord M's excellent tutelage. The House might be overrun with reformers who aggressively flaunted their working-class origins but at least here, in Council, Victoria could be assured that she faced only Crown loyalists.

Victoria expected the momentary shock her appearance would cause. Fully half her small face as battered as any prizefighter's. She calmly looked from one man to another, her own posture elegant and her expression one of dignified detachment. She was able to meet the gaze of nearly every man at table. Only Greville found something of great interest in the depths of his crystal goblet, while Lord Howard winced visibly, unable to contain his horrified distaste. Victoria's shoulders moved ever so slightly, in what might have been a dismissive shrug or merely an adjustment of position.

"Lord Melbourne?"

"Your Majesty, I am honored to convey the conviction of every man present that you are as wise as you are magnanimous."

Victoria compressed her lips, narrowly averting the display of an appreciative smile. She never tired of these rare glimpses of the public Melbourne. Amongst his peers, he occasionally lapsed into a perversely grandiloquent manner of speech which the ignorant considered profound, the conceited called pretentious and those who really knew him understood was deliberately whimsical, leavened as it was by a lilting drawl and dancing light in his eyes.

"Thank you, Lord Melbourne. Gentlemen, I trust Lord Melbourne has conveyed our insistence that in no circumstance must my misadventure be used to further any agenda."

Victoria had known her duty immediately. In the ensuing frenzy, with her protection officers, military escort and bystanders all converging on her assailant, she had instantly understood that no matter the ultimate truth of the matter, the situation must be contained. Otherwise, the incident would be used by every agitator and reactionary in the country to make their point for them. It would not do.

Heads bobbed around the table and Victoria was reassured that her ministers agreed to the wisdom of such a course. Now, she wondered, what will they advise to implement it?

"Ma'am, the rules formulated as M'Naghten's Case in 1843 have been adopted as a standard test for criminal liability in relation to mentally disordered. When the tests set out by the Rules are satisfied, the accused may be adjudged "not guilty by reason of insanity" or "guilty but insane" and the sentence may be an indeterminate period of treatment in a secure hospital facility, instead of a punitive disposal. We propose to proceed on the assumption that the unfortunate Mr. Pate is insane under the doctrine set forth in law. This will deprive him of a public forum in which to air his grievances, whatever they might be, and eliminate a potential martyr for the socialists and leftist reformers. He can be hidden away, discredited and forgotten." Victoria rewarded the speaker with an approving nod. Clever, she thought, to discredit the attacker and hide him away until he was forgotten.

"Very wise indeed, to thwart any attempt by those on the right who would otherwise use this attempt on the life of the sovereign to institute a strict policy of intolerance for any who hold views which might – even potentially – stir up dissent and even insurrection." Victoria turned toward this second speaker, but couldn't resist a brief glance toward Melbourne. This was the sort of indirect dissent he had described, laughing merrily, as the weapon of choice for those who had been persuaded against their better judgment.  _Concede the inevitable but get one last shot across the bow._

"The Irish public safety laws brought to English soil, you mean?" The first speaker's retort was sharp. Victoria had no intention of allowing her informal council of advisers to indulge petty rivalries, and looked to Melbourne.

He languidly rose and reached for a crystal decanter that had been resting in a silver tray filled with ice.

"Spring water, ma'am? They've chilled it nicely and flavored it with lemon and ginger. Quite good, for _water,_ that is _._ " His nonchalance defused burgeoning digression, ideological points made under the mantle of presumed agreement. "We must hope it is not mistook for a Quakerism."

Victoria knew her eyes were twinkling – eye, that is, for she could not see out of the right. The lid, when she'd looked into her mirror, was a startling, glossy black streaked with midnight blue, fat and swollen. She smiled her thanks, for the water and the interruption.

Tension defused and egos at bay, her Privy Councilors sat back as the Lord Chancellor explained the legal stratagem for having Pate, despite of his protests, being declared innocent by reason of insanity. The M'Naghten Rule was formulated as a reaction to the acquittal in 1843 of Daniel M'Naghten on the charge of murdering Edward Drummond, whom M'Naghten had mistaken for UK Prime Minister Robert Peel. In the aftermath of M'Naghten's acquittal the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas had convened a panel to examine the defence of insanity.

Mr. Pate himself was outraged by the suggestion he was not mentally competent. He was full of grievances, none of them directed at the Queen herself, and his very loquaciousness was another reason to avoid giving the man a public trial. His lawyer would be selected wisely, and instructed where his duty lay.

Victoria's attention strayed to an errant sunbeam which penetrated the heavy velvet draperies. It shone directly on Lord M, lighting his handsome features with a soft aura and making the grey streaks in his curly hair sparkle like true silver. She had held that great leonine head on her breast, had dropped kisses on that soft hair, wound locks of those curls around her finger. Victoria warmed, remembering the comfort they found in each other's arms, the secret night world that was theirs alone. It had been misguided, she realized almost immediately, to instigate lovemaking to assuage her own vulnerability.

 _Gentlemen put such stock in_ that _,_ Victoria knew, when for her pleasure was found in his presence, the timbre of his voice, the spicy scent that rose from his skin. Whether he knew it or not - of course he did; Lord M knew _everything_ \- she derived deep satisfaction from his undivided attention, the tenderness with which he held and kissed and caressed her, the melting warmth in his gaze. Whether he brushed her long hair, laughed while she explored every inch of his long solid form, Victoria found all-consuming joy in every aspect of intimacy. She had immediately sensed his discomfort, verging on dismay, when his body had not been prepared for that particular act. Some sixth sense, a knowing that came from their perfect union of body, mind and soul, warned her against attempting to console him. Anything she said would be taken amiss and wound his masculine pride where it was most vulnerable.

 _I am finally learning to be the wife he deserves_ , she thought now with a sense of pride. Then, she had only put herself in his hands, and taken him in hers. Making no overt effort, she only idly stroked that part of him as a continuation of the rest, giving and taking great sensory pleasure in running her hands down the length of his torso, tracing the outline of still-muscular thighs, even tracing the whorled imprints on his toes with her thumb. Relaxed and nearly purring with contentment under her ministrations, he had allowed himself to succumb, kneading her breasts, gliding his big gentle hand over that exquisitely sensitive place. She had allowed herself to respond, because it would stimulate and gratify him to know he had pleasured her, and her own release readied him in spite of his trepidation.

They had held each other afterward, languid in the warm night air. _You redeemed me, ma'am. I am most grateful_. Behind the fanciful, self-mocking language Victoria intuited some sadness.

_It won't always be that way, you know. I am sixty-seven._

She had been silent for a long while, her fingers working in his hair so he would know she had attended to his words. What to say that will console and convince him? She had searched her mind, then decided to expose her heart instead.

"There are many ways to be close. As long as we have each other and the comfort we give each other, we have everything." Victoria knew any words would be inadequate so she only looked at him, allowing him to see to the depths of her soul, to see the truth in her face.

She brought her attention back to the present, to this Council room with dust motes dancing in that sunbeam despite fastidious housekeeping. Charles Greville's fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the gleaming mahogany table as though he were at a pianoforte. Bedford's hooked nose and supercilious expression, Howard's air of being above it all and surrounded by mere mortals who lacked his claim to a thousand-year-old lineage.

And  _him_. Melbourne, the center of it all. Effortlessly charming, his air of nonchalance so elegant it made even Howard seem as gauche as a clodhopping country boy, his rare intellect, an understanding so subtle that his mind ran a thousand paces ahead of those around him, circling around so it appeared he suddenly stood on the opposite side of some ideological debate when in fact he only saw everything in a thousand shades of gray. _As God might_ , Victoria thought and then flushed guiltily at such sacrilege.

There was no stiffness in his bearing, yet his back was straight and his head high, showing the thick gold braiding on his court uniform to advantage. _No one wears it better_ , Victoria observed for perhaps the hundredth time. But then, no gentleman is as handsome, as finely made, as Lord M. And he's _mine, all mine_. A plain girl without any particular beauty – an assessment Victoria made dispassionately, refusing to be deluded – or charm, or facility for the sophisticated banter of even the least of her ladies-in-waiting who had refined their own manner at parties and in early flirtations whilst she was studying constitutional law. What she had, Victoria understood, was the answer to his own heart's call, an unfathomly deep love for this very original man. Lord Melbourne. She knew without false modesty that she gave him the one thing he'd craved and never had, a single-minded, unconditional love that needed his love in return, to be whole.

Victoria realized that all eyes were on her, showing curiosity, speculation, impatience and – from Lord M – a sweetness that proclaimed silently what words and gestures could not.

She inclined her head, a gesture intended to convey noncommittal acknowledgement – of what, she had no idea.

"Then it's settled," Melbourne said, rising. Only Greville was slow to file suit. _Poor man_ , Victoria thought, amused. _He's quite at a loss when not able to write feverishly, capturing what was said, who said it, how they said it and what they wore while they said it._ As Secretary to the Council, Charles Greville was charged with recording their every utterance for posterity. This impromptu meeting was not a formal session, and everything discussed would be held _in camera_ so poor Charles could only listen.

 

**

An hour after the meeting concluded, the royal family was en route to Brocket Hall. Four hours later the queen was blissfully shedding layers of clothing unnecessary in the privacy of one's country home _._ Still later, _sans_ corset, stockings and two stiffened petticoats, wearing only a simple cotton frock over her undergarments, Victoria leaned against a rail fence gazing out over lush green fields. Melbourne's hands rested on either side of hers, his corded forearms visible where his sleeves had been turned back.

"It's so beautiful here," Victoria sighed. "I feel as though I can breathe, really breathe. Brocket is _home_ in a way no palace can be."

She had felt it on her first visit to Melbourne's quietly elegant Palladian home. Everything was in the first style of elegance, a testament to refined good taste. The rooms were human-sized, meant for living and not _performing_ , and the very walls were imbued with the essence of the man she adored.

"I am glad you think so, ma'am. It is your home, and will be Lily's, something she can possess independently no matter what her future holds." Victoria knew the moment he felt her stiffen involuntarily; he forced a chuckle. "Never mind that. We know I will live forever. I am aging in reverse, with you at my side."

"What did you make of Liam's questions, William?" Victoria asked. All the way from London, Prince William had peppered his father with questions that began _when I am King_.

"Why not ask your mother, son? I have no experience in wearing a crown," Melbourne had questioned the boy once.

"Because Mama _is_ the Queen, but you _advise_ the Queen – or King. You were Uncle King's minister, and then Mama's and so you will be mine too."

Neither Victoria nor Melbourne had the heart to answer him. At six, their son – nominally, Melbourne's stepson although no one who had ever come within a mile of Court paid even lip service to that fiction – had a keen intellect with vocabulary and understanding far beyond his years. He also had a sweet, sensitive, retiring disposition. Although he was outgrowing a painful early shyness, Liam would never be the outspoken dynamo his young sister was.

"I suspect Lily couldn't wait to regale him with all the details," Melbourne said mildly. "Perhaps we should have told him directly."

"Do you think he is truly worried that I might die? No matter how fiercely my head aches, I am alive and well and not likely to succumb. Surely he-"

She was interrupted by Melbourne's huffed laugh.

"My love, Liam is _six_. He's never shown any particular enthusiasm about the notion of becoming king. He accepts it as his duty but not anything to desire. And…" Victoria felt his breath, just before his lips found her ear. Once there, he took the lobe in his teeth and bit playfully. "… _our_ son loves his mother very much. So of course he's worried. I will talk to him."

The sun had disappeared, but Hertfordshire in late June enjoys a long dusk, as though summer itself wishes to prolong each day. Victoria gazed intently at green rolling pasture beyond which the surface of the River Lea gleamed like some dark crystal. The air itself had a certain surreal clarity, and she realized with a shiver that time itself stood still, as if to impress upon her memory this moment, this man, this feeling of perfect peace and serenity in the protective circle of his arms.

"I have some old sketches, and a few letters we wrote Mother from Venice describing the city." Melbourne's mouth was so close to her ear that Victoria felt the vibration of his voice. She shivered again, this time at the odd, delicious sensation. "If you'd like to plan where we'll stay and what you'd like to see."

"Mm-mmm." Victoria made a noise at the back of her throat, and shook her head. "You plan it all. I want _you_ to take _me._ This will be our honeymoon, long delayed. No diplomatic mission, no State business. Only us."

He said nothing for a moment, and Victoria worried that she might have inadvertently offended him in refusing his offer. Of course the _we_ he spoke of had been him and Caroline, but –

"I would like to see the sketches – Caro's, I assume, since you've no talent for drawing. At least there's _one_ thing you're not good at."

"This will be _our_ trip, and _our_ honeymoon, my darling girl. But I can't pretend I've never been. There is much that will delight you, I think.

" _'Vieni, la barca è pronta, Lieve un’auretta spira, Tutto d’amor sospira, Il mar, la terra, il ciel..._ '"

"Did your wi- did Caro write that?" Victoria had six languages, but her Italian was far from fluent and mostly confined itself to the written word.

"Not at all, precious girl. Do you really think I'd recite love poems from one wife to another?"

His tone was easy, and Victoria enjoyed the playful banter. Even concerning Caroline, it only proved the strength of their union that there was little he held back from her.

"Those are the lyrics of a song I heard in Venice. Most of the gondoliers who make it their speciality to serenade visitors – for a price, of course – are men, but there was one woman. Gabriela was a celebrity in the salons, an acclaimed artist and a published poet. Some said she was the descendant of the famous _cortigiana onesta_  Veronica Franco. It was a rare honor when she took to the waters to serenade some lucky person. For whatever reason – I suppose Caro arranged it  –  the beautiful  _Gabriela_ pretended to take a fancy to me. She would sing outside the windows of the palazzo we rented, serenading me at night. It earned me a great deal of teasing and no little envy amongst the party we travelled with." Melbourne sounded both pleased and embarrassed by the memory.

"Sing it to me now, the way she did. Serenade me."

Victoria turned so that her back was supported by the top rail of the fence. She wore only soft satin slippers and the earth was cool and spongy beneath her feet. Melbourne too had shed city attire, and wore only a loose shirt with full pleated sleeves and smocking on the front long since out of fashion. Its hem frayed where he had not bothered to tuck it into his trousers and buttons were missing at the collar. Her fingers tweaked one of the dark curling hairs rising from the open neck of that shirt. Then she tugged sharply and he pretended to yelp.

"You would abuse me, ma'am?"

"If you don't obey me. I command you, sing for me." Victoria laughed under her breath, enjoying the playful mood.

"I can't sing. If you heard me try you would have me cast into the Tower. Like Henry did once, to a minstrel who displeased him."

"I think _that_ minstrel was accused of sleeping with the queen. And her brother, if memory serves. So that makes  _two_ things you are not good at. Never mind, since you are so  _very_ good at everything else I will forgive you."

"Listen, my love…" Victoria did as she was told. The silence was so complete it was almost, paradoxically, _loud_ , ringing in her ears. Just as quickly, the night was full of sound.

"Night songs," Melbourne whispered, leaning his weight against her just enough so that it was not a burden but a comfort.

"The love songs of the crickets, and the frogs, and the corn sighing its lustfulness. Did you know, corn mates? An old farmhand told me that once. There are male and female stalks, and they must copulate to produce fruit."

Victoria's brows furrowed, her expression conveying skepticism. Melbourne only shrugged and laughed. "What can I say? Old farmers say quite a lot that young boys aren't sure whether or not to believe. And the crickets, their mating call is quite strident, don't you think? And the frogs…?"

"Am I to believe that we are surrounded by…?"

"…by life, my darling, my precious, my quite wonderful girl. By life and by love.  _'Tutto d’amor sospira, Il mar, la terra, il cie_ l.'  All of love sighs, the sea, the earth, the sky..."


	11. Chapter 11

The draperies had been pushed back and the casement windows thrown open, so that all the glory of a midsummer morning rushed to greet Melbourne when he opened his eyes. He sniffed appreciatively, at the tang of just-scythed lawn and earth warmed by the sun spiced by a whiff of manure spread over some late-planted rows.

He turned lazily over, pressing his face into a pillow which held even more delicious scents, rosewater and lily-of-the-valley and musky-sweet femininity. Melbourne idly debated ringing for coffee and a tray, certain that Victoria would accompany his morning repast. Then, before he could change his mind and laze away the hours, he threw off bedcovers and swung his feet to the floor in one swift movement.

As he often found himself doing of late, Melbourne took a quick inventory – the cramping ache in his lower back, a near-constant companion, had not awakened along with its host. That was a plus. His digestion, always precarious, made no complaint. Even _there_ , nature was predisposed to be kind and he regarded with no small amount of satisfaction evidence of his body's awakening. Once the bane of every young man, it was a morning phenomenon only valued in its absence.

Laughing at himself for the ramblings of that inner voice, Melbourne dropped his nightshirt to the floor and dressed himself in the country attire his valet had laid out.

**

The public rooms were empty, pristine from the attentions of early-rising housemaids. Brocket Hall was fortunate in having conscientious retainers, after a long spell during which it seemed no servant could endure Caroline's excesses for more than a fortnight. Now, if the cachet of serving at the Queen's country retreat was a part of the attraction, Melbourne hoped that he himself was a fair and considerate employer who rewarded those who served him well.

He went through to the morning room, expecting to find his wife and children breaking their fast. The table bore no evidence of recent use, and he was momentarily puzzled until the sound of merriment reached him. The kitchen was on the ground floor and opened onto a sunny rear courtyard. When he pushed through the green baize door, he entered a bright clean room, spare and unornamented but welcoming for all that. His cook was a woman, sister to the housekeeper, and if she had resisted some of the changes Victoria introduced it was consolation enough to boast that she cooked for the Queen. Two scullery maids began applying themselves with renewed vigor to the copper pots they were polishing, but Melbourne suspected they had been part of the gabbling, laughing cacophony he had interrupted.

Victoria sat on a high stool at the broad unvarnished worktable. Her feet were unshod and her hair fastened into a simple plait that draped over one shoulder. She held Lily on her lap and Liam knelt on the stool beside her, all of them hulling berries. The picture she made was a Rousseau vision come to life. Melbourne doubted that his own mother, like most great ladies, had ever stepped even a shod foot into the kitchen. But  _la petite reine_ was so imbued with her sense of the natural order of things and her own place far above mere aristocracy that it would not occur to concern herself with such petty considerations. Victoria could freeze the most powerful Dukes in the land with her icy gaze and yet here she was, giggling like a schoolgirl before the kitchen wenches.

Melbourne grinned and raked a hand through his uncombed hair, then slid out a third stool and sat down beside his son. The boy's upper lip was stained as red as his fingers, and he sheepishly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Lily leaned forward, nearly crawling on the table, and painstakingly dipped a large berry into the bowl of heavy cream. Bracing herself on one hand, she aimed the morsel in the general direction of Melbourne's face with a gleeful smile.

"I have scones coming out of the oven, if you prefer to wait, your lordship." His cook might have intended to be stern, but Melbourne suspected she enjoyed the unaccustomed commotion of a family in residence.

"Coffee," he said, his voice coming out a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Coffee, please. Then I'll consider further."

The acidic tang of that first sip made Melbourne close his eyes with pleasure. He took his coffee unadorned, and was finicky about its preparation.

The beans were from a single plantation in the Cuban province of Matanzas. The landowners were French refugees from Santo Domingo he had met when they visited London in '35.  He had been struck by M. Derosne's vivid description of Central American horticulture. Coffee plantations, Melbourne was informed, were considered the most beautiful of Cuban farms because of their commanding views of the surrounding countryside, formal gardens, and lush orchards. Melbourne was a collector of interesting acquaintances and he maintained a steady correspondence with the Derosne family which included an annual supply of the best beans and occasional cuttings from some unique specimen of tropical fruit tree or flower.

Melbourne had never been an early riser, preferring to slumber until midmorning and remain abed until noon, with his coffee and papers. Victoria was accustomed to rising at exactly eight, taking only toast and hot chocolate before commencing her day. They had reached a compromise of sorts, as married couples did, each respecting the other's preference and meeting in the middle. He opened his eyes when she did most mornings, and they would murmur soft words in the misty morning light before Victoria took her leave. Her maid knew to remain in the dressing room, respecting the privacy of the Queen's husband. It was not a common thing for husband and wife to share a bed, and even the impassive Miss Skerrett had not entirely concealed her surprise at the first evidence of their unorthodox custom.

Melbourne had once quipped that conversation at the breakfast table should be considered grounds for divorce, and Victoria had ever after treated him with affectionate neglect until he indicated a readiness to talk.

Now, she gave him only a single glance before continuing to twist the green tops from a bowl of fresh-picked berries.

"I thought we could visit the p-o-n-d today," was the first full sentence he uttered, having consumed his first cup of coffee and poured a second.

Liam and Lily turned berry-juice-painted faces toward their father, eyes rounded with excitement.

"The pond, Papa? Can we go please?" Melbourne attempted to maintain an impassive expression, unmoved by the little prince's plea.

"Pleeeeeese?" Lily echoed her brother, elongating the vowel with a note of exaggerated pleading.

"If your mother approves," Melbourne said carefully, glancing at Victoria. "It's been entirely redone, and this time by my landscape architect friend. I've been told it's quite safe, although we won't leave these little monkeys out of our sight."

**

Bringing the children entailed a modest entourage. Baroness Lehzen assumed her presence was required to protect her charges from harm, and only Victoria's firmest tone persuaded her to remain at the house and prepare for their return.

Miss Skerrett, London born and bred, complacently agreed to the outing but was horrified by the suggestion she might enter a natural body of water. "I can chase them around on land, ma'am, but I'm not goin' near no water," she stated firmly. The aptly named Lucy Rivers, that week's protection officer, was the first to volunteer. "I'll take care of them, ma'am, sir. I swam before I could walk, so my Pa always said." Their party was rounded out by the addition of a pair of housemaids who augmented the skeletal nursery staff brought down from London.

Four females in addition to Victoria herself, a picnic hamper, folding chairs for the queen and Lord Melbourne and blankets to spread on the grass, umbrellas to protect Her Majesty's delicate complexion and even the two dogs who hopped into the cart.

An impressive party, Melbourne thought ruefully. _So much for our romantic interlude._ He didn't truly object. There would be time to slip away with only Victoria; this adventure was for the children.

Where the summer before he had taught Victoria to swim by letting her float in his arms in water that would have been over her head, this year the pond had been rebuilt in a new location and with a graded bottom, loads of sand transported from the riverbed to make a gentle slope underfoot. There was ample shallow water suitable for children to splash about, and a rope line kept afloat with buoys marking the depths. Where last summer's first effort had been a homegrown affair, this newest iteration showed the hand of a master landscape architect. What it had lost in rustic charm, reminiscent of his boyhood, it had gained in safety and convenience.

Lily showed no sign of being cowed by last autumn's near-fatal drowning. She shrieked with delight, skinned both knees leaping from the cart unaided, and ran headlong into the shallows. Liam followed suit with only slightly less exuberance, whooping when the cold water lapped at his pale legs.

Melbourne owned no swimming costume – his brothers would have laughed such an affectation to scorn, had anyone suggested it in their youth – and wore only a threadbare pair of knee-length breeches, recovered from the depths of his Brocket Hall closet from some long-forgotten formal affair. Rather than last summer's thigh-length chemise, Victoria had donned a proper swimming dress, albeit one devoid of the frills and furbelows seen in fashionable watering holes on the coast. She rejected a cap out of hand, preferring her hair braided.

Melbourne hung back, watching Victoria approach the water gingerly. _Would she go in on her own?_ he wondered, _or would she require encouragement_? She had no opportunity to make up her mind. The children rushed forward, grabbing her hands and pulling her in to share their delightful discovery. He would join them, but for now was transfixed by the sights and sounds of his family at play. _This_ , he thought with quiet pride. _I gave them this. If I leave nothing else of value to mark my time on earth, I gave them this._

The next hours passed quickly, punctuated by cries of _me, Papa, now me_ as the children clamored to climb his torso so he could fling them into the water. They never tired of the game, and finally he had to plead exhaustion. On the bank, Miss Skerrett and one of the maids had laid out their meal. Victoria joined her voice to his, coaxing the children out of the pond.

"Oh, ma'am, get under the parasol quickly. Your complexion will be freckled as a farm girl's!" Miss Skerrett clucked and fussed, arranging one of the large umbrellas at an angle to shield Victoria's face from the sun overhead. She had declined use of the chair, preferring to sit on the blanket with the children, and with her own hands prepared a plate for Melbourne.

"Am I as freckled as a farm girl, William?" Victoria asked, leaning against his legs to give him the plate.

"No," Melbourne chuckled. "Not now, at least. Your little nose is quite red, however." He leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on the very tip of her nose. "It will peel overnight, I think."

"Will we swim in Venice, Lord M? There is no shortage of water there."

"No, I think not. The canals are beautiful to look at by night, but not entirely appealing by day. You would not dip a toe in _that_ water. But there will be much else to keep you amused. We will go as Mr. and Mrs. Lamb, I think. It will fool no one but signal that we wish to avoid pomp and circumstance."

"'Mr. and Mrs. Lamb'," Victoria repeated, tasting each syllable. "I like that. As though we are ordinary gentlefolk."

"Something like," Melbourne agreed. Of course, the Queen of England could not travel _incognito_ but Venice was a sophisticated city and its noble residents would consider it no more than their due, that royalty met them on equal terms. The 'Lambs' would be fêted at balls and dinners in their honor, but he intended to choose wisely. It would not be politic to entirely snub influential Venetians or the expatriate colony, but he thought they would soon grow tired of complete isolation.

Melbourne thought of the lovely private homes and public galleries, the wealth of art he would show her. The names of those families who would be eager to secure the queen's attendance at this ball, that reception ran through his mind. The Barozzis certainly, and the Vendramin family with their splendid palazzo on the Grand Canal. Perhaps he would write privately to Elizabetta di di Enrico, widow of his old friend Fermo, and let her know of their visit. Her son was Marco Celio Passi, now count di Fermo, di Enrico and di Luca.

He became aware that Victoria was shivering slightly. Her ridiculous swim costume, with its yards of heavy fabric, was sodden and clung to her like a shroud.

"We'll return now," he said abruptly, in a tone that told even the Princess Elizabeth her father would brook no opposition. Melbourne demanded the blanket they had been sitting on, and wrapped it around Victoria's shoulders. He settled her in the primitive farm cart and she smiled her thanks, leaning her head against his arm. Lily was unusually docile, content to doze in her mother's arms and stroke Victoria's brow with her finger while Liam leaned heavily against Melbourne's other side.

When they returned to the Hall, Lehzen swept the children away, exclaiming over their sleepy rejection of a nap. Victoria could not suppress her own yawns as she trudged wearily to her room. Melbourne would have undressed her himself, but bowed to propriety and gave her into her dresser's care.

"And that'll be the last of it? We'll tuck the fellow away in some out-of-the-way lunatic asylum and hope the public forgets about him? Jolly good, if it works."

Palmerston's loud voice was carrying and Melbourne shushed a warning. He had arrived unannounced and showed himself into the library, where Melbourne found him in response to a hasty summons from his butler.

"I'm sure they'll keep him subdued by the judicious administration of morphine. It's impossible to bribe every caretaker in a facility like that. After a few months, he'll be deemed cured and shipped off to Australia or New Zeeland and that'll be the last we hear of him."

Melbourne poured cognac for both of them, and sniffed distastefully at the smoke from a thick cigar smoldering in Palmerston's hand.

"It's the _fourth_ damn attempt, and every one a lunatic of one sort or another. Whether this fellow technically fits the bill, there's nothing to indicate he was acting in unison with any organized group of rebels?"

Melbourne shook his head. "None. Rowan and Mayne will leave no stone unturned, and Cameron's got feelers out in every corner of the city, but so far, nothing to indicate this wasn't one more lone malcontent."

"What the devil does she do to attract them?" It was a rhetorical question and one which Melbourne asked himself, but hearing it voiced by another made his temper flare.

"'Do'? What the devil does that mean? She does nothing to inspire such malice. She is a wise, compassionate sovereign, adheres scrupulously to the constraints of a constitutional monarchy, doesn't meddle in foreign affairs –" this, both a nod and a dig to Palmerston. "-and refrains from taking any public position on domestic matters."

"I think it's the opposite. I don't think it's anything she does or doesn't do – is _perceived_ to do – but only the fact that she's a pretty young woman in a high-profile position that attracts the crazies. Whether they seek to make a name for themselves in the public domain, they all want _her_ attention. Who knows what perverse fantasies she inspires, to trigger those attacks? Let's face it, man, what are the odds that five separate assassins could be as incompetent as these fellows? I think if they wanted her dead at least one would have succeeded by now, don't you?"

Melbourne knew he should take offense at such brutal honesty, but he also knew that Henry was a true friend, Emily's husband and a royalist at heart. He might spout his admiration for foreign anarchists and rebels, but at home he wanted no more to do with an upending of the social fabric than Melbourne himself did. Moreover, the man was genuinely fond of Victoria, Melbourne thought. Give him that.

"Do you think it's a good time to pursue this policy of playacting for the public? Showing herself to them, as an example of a good Christian woman _just like them_? Wouldn't some reverence and awe go a long way in extinguishing this trend for every damn bullyboy to have a go at her?"

"We have advisors who say yes, that the world is changing and thrones are being toppled all over Europe. Absolute monarchy, divine right, that's sadly no more than an archaic fairy tale now. Egalitarianism is spreading like plague. The people have to want to keep her, and get what some call value for their money." Melbourne nearly spat the words, so distasteful were they.

"Your friend Dickens, I assume? Not sure why you trust the fellow, William."

"I've always found it useful to know what's being said in the taverns and on the street corners, Henry. I _know_ what my own class thinks and feels."

"Yes, yes." Palmerston waved the hand which held his glass, noticed it was empty and bent forward to remedy the situation before continuing. "Your man Tom Young was the first set of eyes and ears you employed. Well, find the tipping point between this access your newspaperman friend advises and the distance needed to maintain some mystique. That's all I'm saying."

"Henry!" Victoria's voice chimed prettily. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did I, my dear. I had to see for myself the damage." Palmerston rose. Instead of bowing he peremptorily took hold of Victoria's chin and turned her face to the light. He whistled appreciatively.

"Quite the shiner, ma'am. Might even give my Em pause. You're a tough bird, if I might say so."

"I don't think I could stop you from saying anything you like, Henry," Victoria answered drily. "So long as you don't tell my husband how to look out for me, that is. William takes great care of me. And I am surrounded by guards, public and private."

Candles had already been lit. Melbourne preferred their warm glow to more efficient gas lighting, although gas had been installed in the corridors, kitchens and at least one of the ungainly fixtures sat unused in each of the other rooms. Victoria's brown hair gleamed a rich mahogany, its tone warmed by the ambient lighting. Melbourne thought that even the bruises didn't look as stark as they had previously. Perhaps that was due to a subtle softening of her features, the effect of her relaxed demeanor away from the constraints of Palace life. _She is happy_ _here_. Each time he brought Victoria home to Brocket Hall, some tiny echo of the boy he had once been, Elizabeth's favorite son, wanted to cry out to the shade of his mother. _Look, Mother, see what I've done. She loves me!_ _As poor Caro never could._

"I'm glad to hear it, ma'am. Now, let me kiss you for Emily and I will be off."

"You're not staying to dine with us? It's nearly dark." Victoria smiled prettily at her big brother-in-law.

"Pshaw, Panshanger's only a half hour trot and my horse knows the way if I forget." Melbourne watched affectionately as his sister's husband bent his blond head and put his lips to Victoria's cheek.

"And now, children, I bid you adieu." Palmerston took his hat from the butler and, still laughing, strode toward the door.

 


	12. Chapter 12

By late afternoon, after a half-day in the saddle, Melbourne's lumbago was screeching protest in counterpoint to a pleasant buzzing in his head. A laden farm cart trundled along behind him, filled to overflowing with flowers, produce, a ham and – the last caused him to shake his head ruefully, albeit with a smile softening his countenance – a kitten. _Coals to Newcastle_ , had been his muttered aside when Farmer Carson's goodwife had presented him with a napkin-wrapped straw basket from which emerged the tips of a pair of pointed ears, followed in short order by the rest of a wide-eyed black kitten adorned with red satin bow.

"For the little miss, sir," the wife of his tenant had said shyly. The woman hastily surrendered her grip on the basket to make a curtsy, leaving Melbourne in full possession of basket, bow and beast.

At every stop along the way he was greeted enthusiastically. On a fine midsummer day, the menfolk were at work in fields, on forges or in workshops, attended by sons old enough to put in a day's work. Melbourne might have preferred to make the visits expected of every landlord brief, neither interrupting the labor of his tenants nor disrupting the daily routine of their wives.

None would have it so. He was well-liked by his neighbors, tenants and freeholders alike, and none would miss the opportunity to extend hospitality. Refreshments were pressed upon him at every stop. Beer was drawn up from where it cooled in the well, homemade huckleberry wine and treasured bottles of imported Madeira were all poured liberally.

Melbourne understood that his interest and undivided attention were highly prized by these hardworking people, and in turn he was genuinely interested in their lives, the opinions they expressed and their take on the news of the day. What reached them in rural Hertfordshire was not so very different than what Londoners read, thanks to the rapid expansion of the English press.

Within ten miles or so of Hatfield, he was and would remain a Lamb of Brocket Hall, seigneur of ten thousand acres but at heart one of them, more so than the Cecils with their far older, grander claims to influence and position. That _their_ Lord Melbourne had wed the Queen might be the source of much bragging at a distance, but at home it was a matter of less interest than the price they could expect for the corn they produced, now that restrictions against importation of foreign grain had been lifted.

His nephew rode with him. Will had, Melbourne knew, been at loose ends since he married and buried his wife in the same year. Victoria had never regained her early affection for young Cowper, unable to forgive, or more accurately, forget, Will's ongoing friendship with Caroline Norton. For Melbourne's own sake she made an effort, but Victoria had no talent for prevarication. With those few for whom she felt both trust and affection, she was warm, impulsive and generous to a fault. If that trust did not exist, she armored herself with an invisible layer of impenetrable icy courtesy.

Victoria had stayed behind, reluctant to show herself in all the rainbow hues of a healing bruise. Young Emily, visiting her mother at Panshanger, had been expected with little Lady Mary, and Fanny with her Alice and the infants. Melbourne, contemplating the chaos inevitable when Lily and her cousins ran riot, fervently hoped that his library at least would emerge unscathed.

Once out of sight of the last of his neighbors, Melbourne loosened the constricting cravat and opened the top button of his shirt. At home in the country he looked forward to slouching about in worn canvas trousers and much-mended shirt, but to pay his visits in anything less than a proper coat and immaculate linen would have been an unthinkable insult to his neighbors.

Melbourne had left Victoria with the draft of his most recent chapter. _The Reform Years_ encompassed his effort to describe the beginnings of his political assent, against the backdrop of tumultuous public events. It was, he hoped, history from his unique, necessarily subjective, perspective. The writing had come far more easily than those chapters dealing with matters close to his heart.

"Beastly hot, now that we've ridden out of the shade," Will said, mopping his brow with a kerchief.

The sky was cloudless, the sun bright and the heat such that the road seemed to shimmer in undulating waves of light. The long approach to the Hall was just ahead, prompting Will to tug gently on his reins.

"I should continue on to Panshanger," he said hesitantly.

"Nonsense! You will dine with us, and then you may spend the night or return with your sisters, as you wish."

"I have no desire to encounter the infantry in action," his nephew laughed, feigning a shudder. "Too many babes underfoot scare me."

Melbourne chuckled. "I confess I have a few qualms myself, but I trust that the Baroness will have things firmly in hand. Be that as it may, you _will_ dine with us. Victoria received you this morning?"

"Yes, Uncle. I brought down some dispatches, along with my commission, and she was gracious to me."

Will had, under John Russell, rejoined the government as Civil Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty.

"There you have it, then. You are of course welcome at our table. Baines can find you a clean shirt if you brought nothing."

"I sent my gear along to Mother. All right, then, you've persuaded me. It will be on your head if Her Majesty is annoyed seeing me at her table."

Satisfied, Melbourne allowed himself to slouch in the saddle as they covered the last half-mile to Brocket Hall.

A small solitary figure detached itself from the shade of an oak tree and walked toward them. Melbourne waved his hat at the little boy, who broke into an eager run.

"Poor little fellow, left behind with the girls to torment him," Will laughed. He swung his leg over the pommel and dismounted, calling out to the boy. "Bertie!"

Melbourne felt a jolt of pure terror wash over him, sending a shudder down his spine. He looked sharply at his nephew, throat constricted so speech would not come. Finally he was able to croak out the words.

"What did you call him?"

Melbourne saw the small face turn up in surprise, sandy brows coming together, little lips open in an O of shock. Will glanced over his shoulder, equally dismayed.

**

The Queen, they were told, was in the drawing with the Ladies Ashley-Cooper and Jocelyn. Tea had just been served, and she had instructed the butler to invite Lord Melbourne and his nephew to join them.

Melbourne, disorientated, looked down at his dusty coat, saw the ends of his cravat hanging loosely. Will stood behind him, awaiting a cue.

"We'll make our bows, and then go wash off the dust of the day. Come on then." He clapped his nephew's shoulder, trying for a display of gruff good humor.

But he could not go to her. Instead he stood in the doorway to his own drawing room, the walls with their pictures, the rugs on the floor, his mother's piano and her delicate writing desk all infinitely familiar and hideously foreign.

 _It's all right, and it's all wrong_. The words made no sense, but there they were, in the forefront of his mind.

Three young ladies in pastel summer frocks sat together. The room faced east, so was spared the heat of afternoon sun. It overlooked the pond where a pair of white swans swam with their cygnets. His nieces, sister Emily's girls, had been frequent visitors to Brocket Hall these past few years. It was right and natural they should be here now, drinking tea, looking at him expectantly.

 _She_ was between them, caught in the act of pouring tea. Her profile was pure, unmarked, the skin creamy, nose just slightly turned up at the tip. Melbourne half-expected her image to be translucent, insubstantial as an hallucination. How often he had imagined her thus, here at Brocket Hall, pouring tea, eating biscuits, wandering the hallways, a memory so often revisited that it becomes frayed and pellucid.

Melbourne felt hot and cold, skin uncomfortably taut against his bones, stomach churning violently. Before he could humiliate himself and send the girls flying to their mother with dire warnings about Uncle William's declining health, Melbourne turned on his heel and rushed out.

**

A valet sees his master in dishabille, in the grip of sickness and intoxication, learns to accept everything and remark upon nothing. Absolute discretion is essential, as is discernment.

Baines had been with Melbourne for a quarter-century. He had served in a house where the mistress would roam half-naked, consumed by morphine and madness, had silently witnessed Melbourne grieve the death of that wife, and then of his son.

He was waiting with clean linen and a fresh suit of clothing, with a basin of cool water, razor and shaving soap. Melbourne pushed open the door to his own bedchamber and knew without being told that Baines waited in the dressing room to assist him in changing for dinner. Just at that moment, he could not, would not, do anything except sink into the cool dim stillness and catch hold, if he could, of his reeling mind and disordered senses.

 _Bertie_ was right and it was wrong. The Prince of Wales, eldest son of the Queen, was Bertie. Prince Albert Edward, born in – Melbourne fumbled for the date – was it 1841? November of 1841. And _Liam_ was wrong, but it was right. The Prince of Wales, eldest son of Queen Victoria, born on December 21st 1840\. Which was it? Melbourne struggled desperately to reconcile the conflicting truths. One of them was a pudgy, whey-faced, large-boned boy, whom Melbourne regarded with dutiful affection because he was _her_ child and his sovereign's heir. The other – his heart constricted so painfully that it was impossible to draw a full breath – was a slender, shy child with curling brown hair so like his own, the twin of that boy in the brown suit in Mr. Reynolds' _Affectionate Brothers_.

Melbourne sat heavily on the very edge of his bed, so that he nearly slid off the mattress and had to brace himself to restore balance. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, careless of the dirt and sweat on his palms, and then gripped handholds of his own thick curly hair and roughly shook his own head. He wanted to buffet his skull, to dislodge whatever megrim had taken hold. Instead he relented, dropping his face into his hands and sobbing.

A cool, soothing hand on his brow brought him back to himself. Only his mother could ever soothe him so effortlessly. Only her touch had ever brought instant relief and peace to his troubled heart. Melbourne didn't look up. His breath slowed to the rhythm of gentle fingers stroking his scalp, combing through the matted hair. He inhaled the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley, of clean milky skin and sun-dried laundry.

His close-fitting jacket was tugged off – with some difficulty, it seemed – and the dangling cravat removed. Riding boots were removed by stronger, surer hands and the waistband of his trousers loosened. Eyes still firmly closed, Melbourne allowed himself to be put to bed under crisp clean sheets, permitted his face to be cleansed with a soft rag dipped in cool rose-scented water. _Miss Cuyler fusses too much about my well-being._ The name, and the personage to whom it referred, was at once alien and strange and heartbreakingly, monotonously familiar. More of that nauseating sensation of two images overlapping so neither could be distinctly seen.

Melbourne heard voices, too low to make out the meaning. When he strained he could discern a firm feminine voice. _Recognize_ was too hopeful a term, he decided, for surely it could not be.

"He has a touch of sunstroke, I think, and migraine most definitely. If he's not better by morning I will call for the doctor. Please tell the others they are welcome to dine. I will remain here, with my husband, in case he should need me."

* * *

 

[Many Mansions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180077) is a very short story, the view from the other side of the looking glass. What those who consider the wonders of our universe to be a binary proposition would call "reality."


	13. Chapter 13

 

Victoria sat beside Melbourne in the cool, dim sanctuary. She was careful not to intrude, anticipating the need to slip out and send Baines in her place. Victoria herself could bear only her old governess tending her when in the throes of unpleasant physical _extremis_ and knew her husband felt the same squeamish reticence.

She sat, hands folded in her lap, taking in every detail of this room which contained and reflected the essence of William Lamb more than any other. Heavy velvet hangings were drawn across north-facing windows, their blue velvet nap worn smooth in places. The four-poster bed was made of sturdy turned oak, the bureaus and chests likewise were solid and adorned with only brass fittings. Every flat surface was covered with stacked books, papers, manuscripts and even a few drawings. The miniature of Caro and little Augustus was amateurishly done, inscribed to William with love by the hand of his wife. His _first_ wife, Victoria amended mentally. He'd offered to remove it once, but Victoria would not have her predecessor entirely vanquished from the house she'd called home.

Even stacks of folded clothing were in evidence, to the dismay of his careful valet, but Melbourne would allow no servant's hand to alter anything without his express permission in this inner sanctum.

Brocket Hall had been Victoria's home too, for the years since their marriage, and in spirit even longer than that. She had been given the apartment once occupied by Elizabeth, the first Viscountess Melbourne, and that tranquil chamber housed the marital bed. Victoria entered this other space, William's bachelor quarters, seldom enough that it felt both foreign and wonderfully familiar. Even the air was rare in this closed-up space, redolent of leather-bound books and their linen-paper pages, a hint of something spicy and Eastern – sandalwood perhaps, Victoria decided – and underneath that, the merest hint of earthy, musky masculinity.

Each time she checked on him, William was still awake. He lay still, eyes squeezed tightly shut, a forearm flung over his face, but she knew he did not sleep. Each time she touched him less dry heat emanated from his skin.

Too much sun, Victoria was certain, and too many libations along the way. Dear foolish man, she thought fondly, in his fine form-fitted black coat, starched shirt collar and black silk cravat. If women were cursed by the need to smother themselves in multiple petticoats, corset, chemise and the yards of fabric required to make up a gown, gentlemen had it no easier. Farmhands might strip to the waist and stable boys leave loose shirts untucked over knee length britches, but custom would harshly censure anyone with a claim to gentility venturing forth in such casual disarray.

Earlier that day Victoria had read Melbourne's handwritten first draft of _The Reform Years_ fascinated by this insider's accounting of this time of civil unrest. She had known nothing then of course, a mere girl of – she quickly subtracted the year of her birth - thirteen. Not so very young, then. It would have been during that summer she first met the man who would later come to be her whole life. As Home Secretary Lord Melbourne had promoted the bill to reform their voting system and eliminate the Rotten Boroughs wherein a tree trunk, a vacant mill, a plot of uninhabited land, would send a man to Parliament and the great industrial town of Manchester went unrepresented.

Melbourne described the riots in Bristol as some of the worst seen in England. They began when Sir Charles Weatherall, who was opposed to the Reform Bill, came to open the Assize Court. Public buildings and houses were set on fire, there was more than £300,000 of damage and twelve people died.

Melbourne feared that unless there was some reform there might be a revolution instead. He looked to the July 1830 revolution in France, which overthrew King Charles X and replaced him with the more moderate King Louis-Philippe who agreed to a constitutional monarchy. Her Uncle King William had lost much popularity in opposing reform. Lord M had convinced Uncle to make more Whig peers so that they might mollify the reformers with a carefully crafted set of measures to address their concerns.

Victoria thought now of all she had read, and how little she herself had been prepared to understand the great issues facing her nation. If her uncles had preferred _not_ to know what was happening, they might be excused for not recognizing the need to ensure the heir to the throne was any better informed. Her gaze went to the long still man-shape stretched out on a tapestried coverlet and her heart swelled with such emotion it rose as a lump in her throat. William Lamb was surely sent by Divine Providence, to guide and mentor and instruct the girl she had been as much as to love the woman she had become.

 _And to plant in me the next generation, our son a King who would see Great Britain into the twentieth century._ It sounded impossibly distant, the year 1900. She and William would be gone, and King William VII would reign, a monarch as profoundly wise and innately kind as his father.

Victoria left her chair and went to him again. She laid her hand lightly on his forehead, pushing back the silver tendrils.

"You're cool again," she murmured, lips laid against his head. "You will feel better soon, darling." When he didn't respond she felt a brief pang of hurt, easily tamped down. _You're not a self-centered child anymore_ , she told herself sharply. _Not everything revolves around you and your feelings._

**

Neither Fanny nor young Emily had departed, though they each looked as though they would very much like to take their leave. Will, Victoria saw, was seriously distressed. He had found clean linen and made himself presentable, but his expression was somber. The three siblings fell silent when Victoria entered.

"William is resting," she said mildly. "I doubt he'll come down tonight."

"Ma'am, please give Uncle our best. Mother will surely want to see for herself that he is not seriously ill," Lady Ashley-Cooper said, stepping forward to take Victoria's hands.

"Please assure your mother that William is suffering no more than a headache, now that he's out of the sun. Such a warm day, and you rode for hours. I suppose he had to walk every row to admire the crops, and then drink a toast to the – well, never mind." Victoria stopped short, suddenly aware of Will Cowper's stricken expression. "Will, he is truly _fine_. When he wakes, you can see for yourself if you stay the night."

"I must apologize to Uncle, and to you, ma'am, and His Royal Highness." Cowper spoke formally, his eyes lowered. Victoria could not like him, considering his close – some said even intimate – relationship with his uncle's former mistress, a woman she loathed with every fiber of her being. But just then she saw only the genuine affection Will bore Lord M, and relented.

"Will, I am sure you have nothing to apologize for. You know as well as I, how William loathes molly-coddling. And he _will_ visit his tenants and the surrounding farmers at every opportunity. He likes talking to such people. He says it is most stimulating, to hear how others think and what their lives are like."

"When we – I am afraid he took offense at my casual greeting of the little prince, ma'am. Uncle grew most irate when I called to him by his name. I'm sure you have impressed upon him the need for all of us to avoid imposing upon our connection to –"

"What else must you call him, Will? My son _is_ Liam, to his family. You are Emily's son and Liam's cousin."

Victoria felt both surprised and curious at the swift clearing of Cowper's troubled expression.

"I meant no disrespect, truly. Certainly in a more public setting I would address Liam properly, by his title."

"Put it out of your mind, Will. If as you say William seemed to take offense, it must have been because his migraine was already tormenting him. Now – where _is_ Liam? I would like to see the children before I excuse myself once more."

Lily – the Princess Royale, Elizabeth – and her cousins were at the far end of the long drawing room, out of sight of the adults. They sat in a circle, the skirts of their dresses spread out over the rug and took turns dangling ribbons to attract the attention of a small kitten. Liam sat cross-legged to the rear, the dignity of his six years not compatible with the uninhibited glee coming from the girls.

"Where did you find that, Lily?" Victoria asked, knowing at once who was the instigator of every adventure. She envisioned her intrepid daughter dodging hooves and claws in the barn, to snatch the kitten away from its semi-wild littermates.

"Will, Mama," Liam offered. "Will brought him for Lily, he said."

"Will, you surprise me with your – er – thoughtfulness," Victoria said drily. "The nursery needed another mouser. Five – no, six dogs if we count the St. Bernard pup I had to rehouse in the Barracks, and at least four cats, all superintended by Liam's monkey."

Somehow, word of the little princess's affection for cats had spread beyond the confines of court. In truth, she liked dogs just as well, was fiendishly jealous of her brother's monkey and favored her pony above all. Just as Victoria herself was the beneficiary of canine bounty, with puppies offered up by every ambassador, trade delegation and foreign dignitary, so Lily was gifted with kittens. Like any three-year-old, the novelty of a baby animal soon faded and some second footman or maid would be assigned the responsibility of caring for another addition to the palace menagerie.

For now, though…Victoria's lips twisted into a rueful smile, seeing Lily's tender care for the little being. She bent and stroked the new soft fur, admiring an exquisitely made triangular face and shell-pink nose.

"May I show Papa?" Lily asked, rubbing her chin on the kitten's fur. Victoria eyed this child, so rambunctious and so adored by her doting father. She brushed tangled curls back from her daughter's face.

"You may show Papa tomorrow, darling. He is resting now. He missed his afternoon nap."

"I am pretending he is a _real baby_ , Mama. See?" Lily turned the kitten over onto his back, heedless of its mewling protest. She inexpertly cuddled it against her chest and to Victoria's surprise, all resistance ceased as the tiny furball nestled against its human foster mother.

"Mama," Lily continued some minutes later. "You should have a real-real baby. I would take very good care of it. Mary and Alice _each_ have new babies, but they won't share."

Victoria exchanged looks with her husband's nieces. They each had given their lords an infant within the last year – Fanny, despite her ethereal loveliness, had produced four in five years – and considered themselves fortunate to have the means to employ a battalion of servants.

"I will talk to Papa about it," Victoria solemnly informed her daughter. "We must be sure he wants a baby."

Lily's eyes flew wide open and she jumped to her feet, kitten forgotten.

"No!" Lily stomped a foot. "I am Papa's only baby. _You_ have a baby, _not_ my Papa."

**

As soon she stepped back into his bedchamber Victoria knew that Melbourne was finally, truly asleep. His breath came even and slow and the residual strain had left his handsome features. She untied the ribbons on her slippers and climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle him. Her corset pinched uncomfortably, keeping her spine straight when she would have molded herself to his shape, and her skirts suddenly seemed voluminous although in fact she wore only a simple summer frock and one petticoat. She would ring for her maid as soon as their guests had settled themselves at dinner or gone on to their stepfather's nearby estate.

A book lay face down on the bedside table, abandoned at some earlier date. Victoria picked it up for something to do. _Memoirs of the Life of Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ , written by Thomas Moore. The margins were dark with Melbourne's angular handwritten comments, an intriguing invitation to see into his wonderful mind. Victoria vaguely recalled him telling her that he had begun to write Sheridan's memoirs himself, had assembled letters and reminiscences of those who had known the legendary playwright and Whig politician. It was intended to be a diversion during some of the more uncomfortable years, but after a twelve-month he had lost interest in the pursuit and turned the whole over to Mr. Moore.

Richard _Brinsley_ Sheridan. Victoria pronounced the name in her mind with a little moue of distaste. La Norton's grandfather, her son called _Brinsley_ , the boy she claimed was Melbourne's. Victoria allowed her rancor to simmer for a long moment before putting it away once more, in the back of her mind, gone but never forgotten. She began to read.

It was impossible to gauge the passage of time or even guess at the hour, so long as the heavy draperies remained closed to protect William's eyes from the light. When Victoria laid down her book halfway through the first volume, her back protested in earnest and one foot cramped painfully. She saw his lids flicker in response to the movement and went around to his side of the bed.

Melbourne's eyes were sleepy, but the familiar fine lines at the corners gave him his usual genial expression. Victoria swooped down and pressed a butterfly-light kiss on the delicate skin.

"Made a fine spectacle of myself, eh? Doddering old fool too long in the sun." His voice was thick, with sleep or the remainder of illness, and Victoria hastily poured water from a glazed stoneware jug. When she put a hand at the back of his head, intending to help him raise it, Melbourne caught her wrist and brought it to his mouth. His kiss was gentle, but perhaps something more as well. Victoria felt liquid warmth pool in her lower abdomen, that roiling sensation which told her how ready her body was for his attentions.

He pushed himself up to a reclining position and drank the cool water greedily, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Well? Did I do anything unforgivably foolish to embarrass myself?" Victoria, about to answer him, was struck by the watchful assessing look in those beautiful black-fringed gray eyes. She considered how she would answer.

"Will apologized for offending you," she said softly, watching him in turn. _What did he expect to hear?_ Victoria wondered.

"What did he say? What did he say I said?"

"Only that he thought he erred in addressing Liam by name. He assumed you were angry at his informality, that it might seem as though he were taking advantage of the connection. I assured him that –"

" _What_ name? What did he call him?" Melbourne's voice had sharpened, into a harsh tone Victoria had never heard. Puzzled, she tilted her head and gazed at him quizzically and instantly he relented. His hand came up, caressing her cheek, but she thought that something still weighed on his mind.

"Liam, surely. What else would he call him? There are too many Williams already."

The tension visibly drained away and that dear familiar face softened once more.

"Can I get something to eat? I don't want to face the pack. Let the girls run home to their mother and if Will stays I'll say the right things to assure him he caused no offense."

"I suspect he blamed me more than you anyway," Victoria responded. "He would naturally think it was I who insisted on keeping him at arm's length. Even if I wished any such thing, Liam himself would not tolerate it well. He dislikes honorariums in private, although he knows he must endure them on State occasions."

Victoria stood and adjusted her skirts. "I will send to the kitchens for something. If I show my face Lily will insist on introducing you to her newest acquisition. Your nephew brought her a kitten. If he seeks to regain my favor, that was not an auspicious beginning."

**

"They want me to go to Scotland." Victoria mimed a shudder of distaste. "Rocks and damp and rough, coarse men."

_A tray had been procured, bearing sliced ham, a fine crumbling aged cheese and buttered rolls. Dishes of pickles, olives and first-crop radishes from the kitchen garden rounded out their repast. Melbourne had asked for wine and received lemon-flavored water in its place._

_"My darling, you don't suspect I was inebriated? I am offended that you think I don't have a better head for spirits than that."_

_"No, William," Victoria had protested, laughing. "I only think that you became overheated, and consumed what they poured on an empty stomach, and overtaxed yourself. Wine can wait until tomorrow but if you're very good and finish your dinner, I might be persuaded to bring up a bottle of iced Champagne. Even your doctor considers it as good as tonic."_

_She had arranged the tray and prepared to depart, intending to change while he ate. Melbourne would not have it._

_"We've managed to seclude ourselves this long while. No need to call attention to ourselves now." He had risen and turned her so her back was to him, then undid the long row of fabric covered buttons running from neckline to waist. When her day dress had pooled around her feet he unlaced her corset strings with like proficiency, taking his time at the task. When the stiff panel fell free Victoria's nipples poked through the thin fabric of her chemise aggressively. Melbourne deliberately folded her gown and the petticoat which followed with all the care of a well-trained chamber maid. Then he turned his attention to the remaining garments, a chemise and fine cotton drawers._

_"I have nothing to put on in its place, William," Victoria had protested weakly. "We are in your chamber, not mine. Mine is – across the – " she swallowed past a tightness in her throat. "-hall."_

"Then we will go to Scotland. You _are_ the Queen of Great Britain _and_ Scotland," Melbourne answered reasonably. He plucked an olive out of its dish and popped it into her mouth.

"At least he doesn't suggest I go to Ireland too, before the end of summer. Although I suppose I would rather face a mob of angry tenants than red-faced Scotsmen in their kilts and God-knows-what underneath."

Melbourne laughed easily. Victoria leaned against him, and he had one arm around her, his hand resting in her lap. "I suspect you know exactly what lies underneath. Although perhaps not _lying_ , when you're about."

Victoria went through the rest of a thin stack of missives Will had brought along from London. With Parliament adjourned, there was little government business which required her immediate attention but Victoria was pleased nonetheless that John Russell took it upon himself to keep her informed.

"Speaking of Ireland, it seems there has been little reduction in unrest despite repeal of the Corn Laws."

"Not surprising to anyone, surely. Hungry people care about food, not politics. Importation of foreign grain is not the panacea. It will impoverish our farmers and do nothing for those who can't pay for bread no matter how inexpensive." Victoria saw Melbourne rake his hand through his thick head of hair, an old familiar gesture that had endeared itself to her early on. He did it when he was thinking over some weighty matter, casting about for a solution.

"There will have to be an increase in direct aid. I don't like to say _must_ to your ministers, my dear, it is not my place. But empty stomachs require filling before any other gesture has meaning. I would like to see it come from you, and be known to come from you. Ministers come and go, governments rise and fall, but the monarchy is the one constant in the life of the nation."

Their talk lightened then. Victoria listened avidly while Melbourne recounted conversations he'd had with tenants and the news they shared freely. This one's son had enlisted, that one's promising daughter was accepted at a residential school in Bath where she would emerge a teacher. He would do his mite as he always did, put in a word to gain some young man's advancement in a London bank, send a draught to cover a year's school fees, pay the cost of a lieutenancy for the career soldier who turned his back on his father's plow in order to see the world.

"Lily is pleased with her kitten. Do tell Will once more how very _kind_ it was to add to our menagerie." Victoria was deliberately droll and Melbourne rewarded her with his laughter.

"However much she likes mothering her new kitten, she asked if I might produce a real baby. Alice and Mary have been fortunate in that regard. Your nieces breed regularly, and Lily feels at a disadvantage."

"And you told her -?"

"I suggested we might consult with you, but she made it plain that she will not permit you to have any involvement in the process. _I_ might produce an infant to amuse her, but _you_ must remain hers alone."

"Ah, and where do you think you might get that baby she wants, if I am not to play a part?"

Victoria threw out names, laughing at each prospective father's odds of contributing to the royal dynasty.  Melbourne laughed with her, even coming up with his own suggestions. She was aware in the moment of how entirely fortunate, even _blessed_ , they were to find in each other such perfect companionship.

"By the way, ma'am, before I forget I must tell you how proud I am that you handled things well, without making a mountain of a mole hill. If you were not a queen you would make an entirely satisfactory housewife."

"Why, thank you, I'm sure, Lord M," she answered pertly. "I think – I hope – that I know you well enough to understand how little you like a fuss made, and that I know how to care for you in the way you prefer. It feels good to have you need me for a change and know that I am capable."

His arm tightened around her, and Victoria sighed blissfully, laying her head against him. Her own lids were drooping and she felt sleep creeping up. Before she succumbed, she remembered what she'd wanted to ask him.

"William?"

"Hmmm?"

"What name did you _think_ Will called? What else would our son be named?"

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**_Queen Victoria's carriage on the royal train, circa 1846_ **

 

"Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you'd made different choices early on?"

Melbourne threw out the question casually, discarding a card as he did so. Five men sat with him in the smoking car, informally assigned to those gentlemen accompanying Her Majesty to Scotland. Preparations had been made hastily, once the thing was decided. Johnny Russell, it seemed, could be entirely too persuasive despite his awkward, diffident air. Ireland was in a state of perpetual unrest, as far back as Melbourne could remember. Scotland, at the present at least, was proving more docile and it was for that reason the Ministry decided a visit by the queen was long overdue.

Finding peers willing to undergo the journey had proved a nearly insurmountable obstacle. All those who had country homes to return to had vacated the capital, and even if they might be cajoled into volunteering it would have taken longer to summon them than Victoria was willing to wait. She accepted her duty with a longsuffering air, but made it plain that under no circumstances would she tolerate delay.

Palmerston had bluntly refused, when Melbourne extended the invitation, and Emily had declined to intercede. "It's bad enough I must appear annually at our Irish property. Scotland is even _more_ primitive and unappealing."

Russell himself had articulated the reasons why his presence would be counterproductive, lending a _political_ varnish that would not serve them well. He sent a Junior Lord of the Treasury, Sir Henry Rich, to act on his behalf and ensure everything ran smoothly.

"To be my minder, William, and make certain I stay true to the script he has written," Victoria had observed privately. It would be politic, she was told, to invite companions with familial ties to Scotland. The best they could come up with on a fortnight's notice were the Cameron brothers.

"Cameron's an old Highland name, Billy. Surely you have _some_ ancestral ties you can claim."

"If so, I'll warrant they won't admit it," Cameron had drawled his laughing reply. "The old man's _pater_ was run out on a rail in the last century. We've had our roots in Ireland since then."

Nonetheless, Billy agreed to make the trip, conceding it was his duty to safeguard the queen. His brother Daniel, recently wed to the very plain only child of a merchant prince – _robber baron, more like it_ the younger Cameron had opined – made a third. His sullen wife showed some small spark of interest early on, but fit in poorly with the other females in the party.

Victoria had offhandedly suggested extending an invitation to George Von Wettin. Melbourne assumed he would plead the pressure of his career to beg off, but Van Wettin surprised him by agreeing at once.

The fifth of the males attached to the royal household party was one of Melbourne's gentlemen-in-waiting, Stephen Fox. Fox was a flamboyantly effeminate young man, nominally an artist dependent upon his sinecure to survive. He proclaimed to everyone that no poor relation of the illustrious political Fox family could expect to rely upon their largess if he pursued a trade. Melbourne understood that his occasional dabbling at paints and canvas was not the reason his family disowned him.

George, a serious and deliberate architect whose own manner gave no indication of any private peccadilloes, was the first to answer.

"If I had not followed Albert to England, you mean? Or if Albert – if he had not chosen to maintain our friendship…" Melbourne lifted his chin, signaling invitation to proceed, and George steepled his fingers, frowning.

"I would be teaching at Bonn, I suppose, and a bachelor uncle to my brothers' and sisters' offspring. I would never have had the opportunities there, that I have had here. Nor the – the privilege of knowing what it feels like to be content with myself."

Melbourne noted approvingly George's circumspection. Were it not for the inhibiting presence of Russell's emissary, the 1st Baronet Rich, he might have been more forthcoming but Melbourne doubted it. When Albert had gone through a period of excess, throwing himself into every form of debauchery London offered men with his tastes, George had remained sober and prudent. Eventually, it was all too much for the stern strain of Lutheran prudence which shaped his outlook, and they had parted unhappily.

"And Al – His Royal Highness, I should say – would have not known what it was like to stand tall and feel pride in who he was. Forgive me," Von Wettin added hurriedly, slanting his eyes toward Rich. "We were friends from childhood, and our boyhood was harsh. It was the German way."

"Wouldn't have died in a – a very unfortunate accident." Danny Cameron, always the provocateur, Melbourne thought, biting his lip to suppress a smile when Billy kicked his brother under the table.

"But he wouldn't have lived either, would he?" Daniel's cool grey eyes held a subtle challenge. He himself shared those sodomite tendencies which might have doomed anyone without the might of the Palace machine to prevent rumor and speculation. Such practices were still, despite Melbourne's earnest attempt to change the law, a death penalty offense in the United Kingdom.

The royal train travelled by night. It would be a ten-hour trip to their destination in Scotland. Russell had lobbied hard for Victoria to go by day, waving and smiling from the platform at each town they passed. Her mother had seconded the Prime Minister, contributing her own personal expertise in the art of cosmetic concealment. Victoria had taken one look at her own face thickly coated with powder and paint and rejected the suggestion rudely.

"My face will be healed by the time we return. I will travel by day then, but on the trip north we go by night."

The queen's royal saloon carriage was the first in the world to have a lavatory, a legacy of the Prince Consort's fascination with such fixtures. Another carriage had a fully-equipped kitchen and separate dining room. Before they embarked upon their night time journey her servants prepared the beds with fine linen sheets. One carriage carried the servants – dressers, valets, footmen, maids and tutors. There were special carriages for the royal horses – only at the end, near departure, had Victoria decided against forcing her mare Adagio to endure the journey -and another carriage for the royal luggage. The royal pets might have gone too, had their inclusion not suggested to Victoria they would stay longer than she intended. The Dachshund, greyhound, Skye terrier and Pomeranian were sent to Windsor along with those cats they could round up on short notice. Only Princess Elizabeth's newest acquisition and Prince William's monkey were on board as their train chugged and steamed through the night.

Melbourne's hypothetical proved far more entertaining than he had supposed. Cards and dice were forgotten as each of them speculated freely on what other course their lives might have taken.

"I would not have had the privilege of working alongside Mr. Barry," Von Wettin continued. "If not for the patronage of Your Lordship and Her Majesty."

Melbourne waved a hand dismissively, protesting. "I did nothing except introduce you. It was your talent and diligence, George, which have earned you the respect of your colleagues."

He had introduced Albert's boon companion to the architect charged with overseeing the reconstruction of Parliament. He had been, it was true, the incumbent First Lord of the Treasury, and as such held the public purse upon which Barry depended for his project to succeed. Patronage had done no more than secure a clerk's position for a young engineering student newly graduated from the University of Bonn.

"If I hadn't…" Billy Cameron pushed back his long hair and then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose, if I hadn't come to London after this troublemaker –" he tousled his brother's blonde mop as though the thirty-year-old Harley Street physician was a mere boy. "I wouldn't have met Her Majesty and…I would've had to get a job." They all laughed when he grimaced comically.

Melbourne listened, glad of the distraction. He wouldn't, couldn't, articulate the foundational premise with which he grappled. _How many life paths were there? Was it all foretold, preordained, God's will be done?_ _Or were there many paths one could take, and if so, where did they diverge and did they, could they, ever converge again? If men had free will to choose, where would be the learning if they weren't also free to learn the consequence of_ each _choice?_

* * *

Melbourne had greeted the dawn of the day following his episode (sun stroke? migraine? an unfortunate combination of both, the one brought on by the other?) feeling that delicious languid ease which so often followed a particularly severe migraine. Victoria had sweetly cajoled him to take her down to the pond alone. Even though he wanted nothing more than to lounge in the shade of his garden and watch his children play, he could refuse his wife nothing when she plied him with kisses and used her old, girlish nickname for him. _Please, Lord M?_ Victoria had begged, wide-eyed and looking scarcely a day older than the 18-year-old sovereign who had stolen his heart.

Convincing her to stay in the shallows was a task at which he had to prevail. They were alone at the pond as she preferred it, and Melbourne didn't entirely trust himself to safeguard her. Victoria could not swim and he felt unusually fatigued. They went no further than waist deep – chest high for Victoria – and she was content to float as he'd taught her, while he surrendered to the pleasant buoyancy and drifted beside her. She seemed to sense his reluctance to exertion and, he thought, was pleased enough by their solitude.

They'd ridden back on his big gelding, Victoria's slight weight negligible on the sturdy animal, and as soon as they came into sight of the back garden a curly head bobbed into view.

Melbourne had worked out the design months before, in collaboration with his landscape architect. The gardeners had worked expeditiously to carry them out. A thick copper beech hedge planted under his mother's jurisdiction had been trimmed and shaped to make the walls of a small hidden garden. _The white garden_ , the groundsmen had begun referring to it. Within, every flowering plant was chosen for its fragrance and the color of its blooms – white, of course – and forsythia, foxglove, hyacinth and honeysuckle joined the ranks of rarer cultivars. Too small to contain a traditional folly, Melbourne had asked instead for a simple arbor over a bench suspended on chains. The fountain was installed but not yet working; gravity-fed spring water would provide a very modest reinterpretation of the grand perpetual fountains they saw at Devonshire's estate.

Boys trundling barrows went back and forth, but since the site was on the far side of the kitchen gardens, Victoria had not yet noticed it. That changed when they spied Lily peeking over the eight-foot hedge.

By the time she was safely restored to the grass Melbourne felt suddenly too weak to remain on his feet. He sat heavily on the white wooden swing while Victoria scolded and fussed.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," he'd explained sheepishly.

"It certainly was that," Victoria said, surprising him with her soft laughter. She leaned over his shoulder and pressed her cheek against his. "May I look, as long as we're here? Or should I pretend I've seen nothing."

Many of the plantings were not yet mature, but every plant was in full bloom. Against dark green leaves, the white was ethereal, dreamlike, just as he'd envisioned. Victoria wandered about, examining each, exclaiming with delight at the perfumed scent of commingled specimens. Lily displayed a great deal of restraint, Melbourne thought, mimicking her mother's delicate touch and pressing her little nose into the heart of each flower. He'd rocked gently and watched them. _My girls,_ he told himself fondly. Lily could be no one but Lily, not in a thousand worlds with a thousand different outcomes. She could only be _here_ , and she could only be _theirs_. And that was all the surety he needed.

* * *

Talk wound down just after four o'clock. Sunrise had crept incrementally back since June but still came unconscionably early. They would arrive at their destination sometime around eight. Melbourne excused himself and went to stand on the platform, to fill his lungs with clean crisp night air as much as to let the wind blow away the worst of the cigar smoke clinging to his close. Then he went to find his wife.

Victoria had sat up late, he surmised. Unable to read or write, she had been restive when he'd left her. Her mother and those ladies which accompanied them to Scotland had sought to distract her with chatter. Victoria had little patience for cards, less for needlepoint and cared little for female companionship. _Another preference she and Caro shared with Mother_ , he mused. All three of the women in his life had a distinct affinity for the company of men and found little amusement in the typical feminine pursuits.

The bed in the royal carriage was big enough for one. Nominally he supposed it might hold two, but despite the illusion of privacy no railroad car was designed for conjugal relations. His own designated chamber was in the next car but he felt little inclination to retire for the few hours remaining. Instead he sat on the edge of her bed and held vigil, watching her sleep.

In profile, Victoria's face was unmarred. Full on, the grotesque early swelling had gone down and the violent blues and purples paled to sickly yellow. A jagged line, much like a lightning bolt, ran from hairline to brow on the right side. The doctors promised it would eventually pale to silver, then white, and thanks to careful suturing the line was narrow and neat.

Victoria was not vain about her appearance. In fact, her matter-of-fact acceptance that she would never be pretty tugged at Melbourne's heart. Her face was strong and sweet and dignified, beautiful to him and to others in a way that mere prettiness could never achieve. It held character and commitment and an essential purity of spirit. It was, to Melbourne, the most beautiful face he had ever beheld.

When he imagined Victoria aged – realistically, it was something he would not live long enough to see – he envisioned this same precious face refined by the years, still noble, still pure, softened by love and happiness and contentment. She would grieve for him, but she would have known great love and the strength of that would carry her through without the silent bitterness of regret. He had cherished and esteemed and encouraged her to become the entirely splendid woman she was. That, he hoped - he would pray if he knew to whom he should direct his prayers – would be enough to carry her into a contented old age without her husband beside her. He traced the outline of her elegant jawline with one finger, willing his love to reach her in dreamland.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Waverly Station, Edinburgh 1846** _

Melbourne didn't sleep, in the few scant hours remaining until the day was upon them. He sprawled in an armchair across from her bed, pleasantly lulled by the motion of the train and the ever-present background hum of the rails. He would recall it as a golden interlude, serene.

Victoria's maid tapped promptly at seven o'clock, to wake her mistress by announcing the hour.

"Thank you, Skerrett," Victoria had mumbled groggily. "Please return at half past the hour, with tea and toast and –" she smiled winsomely at Melbourne, her little face half-seen behind a tangled curtain of hair. "-and coffee for Lord Melbourne, please."

He sat on the bed beside her, trying his best to swallow the vile brew they called coffee, feeding her bites of buttered toast. They spoke in desultory fashion of the sights they would see, the people they would meet and the atrocious local delicacies they would be expected to taste. When they had broken their fast, Victoria asked for the sheet on her desk and together they scanned the timeline of their first day in Scotland. The entries began at 9 o'clock and ended with a midnight supper at Dalkeith Palace, as part of the ball in honor of the royal visit. He thought he might suggest limiting his own participation to the morning, ducking out with the children when all eyes were on the Queen as she addressed an assembly of Lord Mayors brought from every corner of Scotland. There was no time to bring up the matter; Skerrett knocked once and came in with the queen's gown on her arm.

Melbourne rubbed a hand across the bristle on his jaw, combed through his disheveled hair with his fingers. The train had slowed considerably, and they would be arriving at the Waverly terminus soon. Time to begin the precarious business of guiding a razor across his neck in the cramped confines of his own quarters.

Waverley Station was situated in a steep, narrow valley between the medieval Old Town and the 18th century New Town. By a special Act of Parliament, North Bridge station had opened on 22 June 1846. The queen was to pay a visit later in the week, before they traveled on to Glasgow and after she attended a ground-breaking for what would become Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway's General station. _Railway mania_ , Melbourne thought aloud. He idly speculated on what other changes the years had brought, since the last time he travelled north of the border. Victoria glance sharpened and she pushed herself fully upright, so she no longer leaned against him.

"What did you mean, _changes_?" Victoria asked after several minutes' silent contemplation of the itinerary.

Melbourne patiently waited for her to elaborate.

"You said you wondered what changes the years have brought to Scotland?" Victoria said slowly, with exaggerated care.

"Indeed I did, and do so wonder. When I was last here-"

"You never told me this was not your first visit to Scotland. When we've talked about it, planned the trip, when you let me natter on like a ninny, you'd already _been_." Victoria's voice rose, so that her natural contralto had an edge.

Melbourne recognized an incipient storm. Victoria's temper had evened out as she matured, but she could still fly into alt on occasion, approaching perilously near the ferocious childhood tantrums that her mother and Baroness Lehzen had told him about.

"It was very long ago," he explained patiently. "I was nineteen, twenty at most, when Fred and I wintered in Glasgow for two years running. We were boys and did what boys do, although what I remember most is writing to Mother. She loved to hear everything, what we said and did and who we met. What else would you like to know? I assure you, if I failed to mention my time in Glasgow it was oversight, nothing more."

"You didn't _tell_ me," Victoria repeated, in that same shrill tone. "I – you've lived a whole lifetime without me and I want nothing held back. I want to know all there is to know about you. Is that too much to ask?"

Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Melbourne was not fooled. Victoria was one of those women to whom tears came as an accompaniment to anger.

"Not at all, Victoria. I'll be happy to tell you about my visits to Scotland, but I don't think we have time now."

Caroline had been a worthy preceptress, in preparing him to be the husband Victoria needed. As a young husband he had done everything wrong. He had tried humoring a tempestuous wife, attempting to placate, then ignore, until his own temper was pushed to its limit by a female determined to evoke some response.

Victoria had never learned to fight – no, he corrected himself, to air grievances without resorting to some stratagem that only made things worse. He recognized very early, as a minister and mentor, friend and companion, that if her first impulse was to emotional dependency upon a strong male figure – and _who_ did she learn that from, pray tell? – it was juxtaposed with a strong will and quick temper.

He had resolved that it was not his job to parent her, and he respected her too much to adopt a paternal attitude. He could only manage himself, resisting that old urge to retreat into himself when marital discord threatened equanimity. He would listen to her when she expressed her feelings, examine her words to understand, and calmly advise her when she went too far in the heat of battle, but he would not – dared not – back down and suppress his own feelings, in the interest of maintaining false harmony. What he only imperfectly understood when he was Caroline's husband, was that not all families shared the free-wheeling camaraderie of his own. He and his brothers and sister would squabble, stand their ground, even resort to bare-knuckles skirmishing, then dust themselves off and remain the best of friends. If it was his place to teach Victoria anything, it was that she could express herself, even vent the inevitable frustrations that were a part of marriage, without surrender or abandonment. _There were no winners or losers in a good marriage,_ he often mused, _only two people learning and growing together._

"You mock me now," she snapped. "I think I am being quite reasonable in resenting the fact that we've talked about Scotland for weeks, planned the details of this trip _ad nauseum_ and yet you never once mentioned that you had been here previously. Was it only with Fred? Did you have a mistress when you were here?"

"We lodged with a philosophy professor, and a grimmer, more hidebound lodging you can't imagine." Melbourne smirked at the memory. "We were roused early, by a fellow lodger, a rotund little mathematician who got us out of bed by eight. The net effect of all that study was to dismay Lady Holland and cause Lord Egremont considerable concern, when I came to London all on fire with philosophical ideas and an urge to debate. Egremont told Mother it would be a shame if I turned into a doctrinaire prig."

As so often happened when he began reminiscing, Victoria's expression became rapt, as though she would enter into the world of those memories.

"And now, my little love, you must let Skerrett dress you and I will shave and change my attire."

If not entirely resolved, their brief argument – if that's what it was – was set aside. Victoria accepted the requirements of duty, and only a reminder of the day ahead earned him leave to withdraw. She could tolerate no suggestion of deliberate retreat, no matter how reasonable a strategy to avoid further dispute. Like Caro, she reacted strongly to the merest suggestion of emotional abandonment. _Another lesson learned at her mother's knee,_ Melbourne reflected. Parents, he knew, generally did the best they could at the time, but good intentions alone did little to mitigate the damage they wrought.

**

At precisely nine o'clock a military band struck up their tune, the signal for Victoria to emerge. She stepped out onto the platform, her face composed into a warm welcoming smile that never quite reached her eyes, and waved to the throngs assembled for a glimpse of their queen. The Prince of Wales – not yet invested in that title, but one used as a courtesy all the same – stood beside his mother and copied her wave. Melbourne held the hand of Princess Elizabeth, pausing for two beats before following Victoria into the light of day.

He watched her with vast pride. _Gloriana_. She was his own Victoria, and she wasn't, on public occasions. She wore her divinity like a robe of state, God's own anointed, and at such times he believed whole-heartedly in the majesty of the crown. An unearthly magnetism seemed to surround her like an aura, so that even he – not only husband, but cradle Whig, career politician and cheerful cynic – was humbled by reverence for something greater than himself. It even spilled over onto her son, sweet sensitive Liam. Melbourne gazed with tears in his eyes at the boy who would be King.

Carriages waited. Victoria and the little prince would ride with the Duke of Buccleuch, Melbourne with his Duchess in the second coach. Those attendants they had brought from London, would ride farther back. At point of departure, while Buccleuch waited to hand her into her seat, Victoria glanced over her shoulder at Melbourne uncertainly. He met her eyes and lifted his chin slightly, in that old gesture she relied upon for reassurance. Victoria would, he knew, be unsettled by her outburst and eager for some sign that all was well between them. _Silly girl,_ he thought, _silly precious girl! I am yours for life, whether you know it or not._

**

Victoria had visited Scotland early in the summer of 1842, while Melbourne was on a perhaps-contrived diplomatic mission to France. She had been pregnant enough to make travel unpleasant. Whether it had been the rigors of travel, the separation from Melbourne or the inevitable discomfort of her condition, she had formed a violent antipathy to the region while Albert went into raptures over the very features she most despised.

 _Cold and damp and not one ray of sunshine in our entire stay_ , she had told Melbourne repeatedly over the past week. _The people are hard, as hard as the endless rock ledges, and the countryside is primitive, as though we were at the end of the world._ On and on she went, giving her recollections a comic bent so that they ended up laughing together at observations which, if expressed anywhere but the privacy of their inner chamber, would cause universal outrage.

She had written him daily during that earlier visit, eager to convey her impressions as a way to bridge the distance between them. Melbourne recalled her letters as the carriage he was in clattered over cobblestones. The people lining both sides of the High Street had turned out to see their queen. If they knew or cared who she brought with her, they showed no sign, voices only rising into a general roar when the crested first carriage passed by.

 _"The country and people have quite a different character from England and the English,"_ Victoria had written after her first day in country. _"The old women wear close caps, and all the children and girls go barefooted. I saw several handsome girls and young men with long hair; indeed, all the poor people, from sixteen and seventeen down to two or three years old, have loose flowing hair, a great deal of it red."_

Melbourne had been equally unimpressed by the Scots, but he knew he must temper his outspoken, sometimes outrageous opinions. Victoria, for all her headstrong nature, was too easily influenced by his least utterance. More than once she expressed violent antipathy based solely on some irreverent quip he had not intended her to take seriously.

"I think you are determined to find fault," he had told her. "Edinburgh is reckoned one of the prettiest cities in Europe."

"That is why I am glad we have George along. He will go into raptures at the buildings so I need only nod and smile as though I agree. Everything is made of stone, not a brick to be seen, so that the impression is one of uniformity and absence of color. I was quite unimpressed."

When they disembarked at their first stopping point Melbourne took advantage of Buccleuch's momentary distraction to lean over Victoria's shoulder and murmur into her ear.

"Well, darling, are you up for it all?"

Victoria turned her face up, lips pursed as though she hoped for a kiss. Melbourne glanced left and right, then laughingly complied. At the chaste spousal peck he laid on her cheek, those nearby erupted into raucous expressions of approval.

"And you, William? It will be a long day, and then a ball to cap it."

"'I will contrive' was the motto of one or another of your ancestors, I believe," he reassured her, already inwardly dreading the day ahead.

Calton Hill, the National Monument, monuments to Nelson and Burns, the jail and the National School – they were all constructed of identical grey stone and the features of one ran into the other in Melbourne's mind. He was content to follow behind while Victoria was led through each edifice. The Castle, sitting as it did on a great rock in the center of town, loomed over all.

Victoria listened attentively to the Duke and chief dignitaries. Melbourne walked several paces to the rear, hands clasped behind his back. She said all that was proper to express the Crown's attachment to her Scottish subjects while he attended dutifully to the Duke's lectures, nodding at intervals. He cared nothing for pomp and neither expected nor wanted to be the object of obsequious attention, but an hour in he was heartily tired of the entire ordeal. As they got into and out of their carriage at each stop Victoria would glance at him as though to reassure herself of his continued presence. _And endurance_ , he told himself wryly, unsure whether he was more touched or embarrassed by her obvious solicitude.

"How are _you_ holding up, sweetheart?" he asked when he could seize the opportunity.

"My feet hurt," she whispered plaintively, then turned back to the assembled dignitaries, beaming.

At the Guildhall, Melbourne stood at attention while the Duke of Buccleuch gave yet another long-winded recital. This time he regaled his audience with the history of the Archers Guard, established by James I. When James fell at Flodden Field his body was found entirely covered by those of his loyal Archers. It might have made an enthralling tale, except the Duke had a booming voice made to be heard at great distance. Curiously, his lady Duchess had the same pitch and volume, so between them Melbourne knew Victoria must feel her ears were under assault.

Long tables had been assembled in rows, with the queen and her party facing them on a raised dais. Meant as a nuncheon, great platters of roast game and suspiciously oversauced dishes were brought out. Victoria had Buccleuch at her right hand and the Duke of Roxburgh on Melbourne's left. Lord Elcho, whom neither Melbourne nor Victoria had known previously, sat farther down.

Melbourne knew that Victoria would not eat on ceremonial occasions. She accepted small servings of each delicacy and pushed them around on her plate. Melbourne did likewise, despite the rumblings of his stomach. His own digestion was susceptible to upset, while Victoria had been well-trained as a girl to avoid the inelegant mishaps which would inevitably result from public dining. _That and_ , she had once confided with sheepish laughter, _I can hardly excuse myself from the center of the stage to find a necessary accommodation._

**

Speeches and toasts and more speeches, interminable boring speeches by representatives of each major guild. The only relief came when the next stop on their itinerary beckoned. Victoria was swept along by her host and Melbourne endured the renewed attentions of their hostess. Lily had long since lost interest in even the novelty of cheering crowds to applaud her antics, and lay listlessly on his shoulder in the carriage.

Melbourne had a passing acquaintance with Lady Charlotte, formerly Thynne. She was connected to the Byngs through her mother, and he had attended her wedding to the 5th Duke at St. George's in Hanover Square in '29. Having endured her company for the past half-day, Melbourne thought that he had never met such a tiresome creature. She could not hold her tongue, clearly of the belief that hospitality was best shown by constant attention, and he was heartily sick of the sound of her voice.

He listened guardedly when the Duchess attempted to engage Lily, repeatedly describing in rich detail her own daughter, the little Lady Victoria Alexandrina Montagu Douglas Scott. Lily would have none of it, kicking her heels against the seat and staring woodenly out the window. Matters reached a head when Lily, settling herself on Melbourne's shoulder, put her thumb in her mouth.

Lady Charlotte uttered a piercing squeal which alarmed father and daughter both, and tugged on Lily's hand.

"You must _not_ permit the child to suck her thumb! Her teeth will grow crooked and her face deformed. Whatever is your governess thinking, to allow such a thing?"

Melbourne managed to restrain his daughter, half-wishing she would land a blow in the woman's insufferably smug face.

"I'm sure Her Majesty can't be blamed for doing her duty, no matter how unnatural an arrangement – for surely it is most unnatural for a wife and mother to rise above her husband's station, as I know you must agree –"

Melbourne compressed his lips tightly and turned away. A cut direct, if such could be obtained in the close confines of a carriage, the most severe social censure, but he told himself he was damned if he would listen to another word.

**

"Leaving?" The single word came out more loudly than Victoria intended. She recovered swiftly, aware of all eyes upon her, but Melbourne thought the half-smile on her face looked more like rigor.

"Victoria, Lily has had enough, as I'm sure Liam has. I will slip out and have Billy accompany us back to the castle."

It was true enough, that the children were bored and fatigued, but Melbourne acknowledged that he shared their condition. The near-constant cramping ache in his lower back was exacerbated by hours standing so that tongues of flame-like pain ran up the length of his spine. He felt vaguely ashamed of his imminent defection, but after all, what good could he do, standing about while the Queen had her hand kissed and asked after the heirs and estates of innumerable Scottish nobles?

He recognized almost instantly that Victoria viewed his intention as stemming from their earlier disagreement.

"Very well, Lord M. You may leave us," she answered coolly, using the royal pronoun, he noted. Or had she? Perhaps she referred to Buccleuch and the rest. Putting on such airs, bringing out her royal prerogative, was an escalation to which she rarely resorted. Melbourne cared little for dignities, and harbored no jealousy of her elevated position, but it stung on those rare occasions when she used it to wound.

Melbourne sighed, and allowed his disappointment to show on his face. Then he bowed formally and backed away for two paces before turning.

"Lord Melbourne –" Victoria's voice was coolly polite. "Please ask Lord Cameron to remain with us. He may escort me in your absence. One of the others can accompany you."

 


	16. Chapter 16

_**Holyrood Palace, Edinburgh** _

He caught her eye, and in the silent communication of husbands and wives, indicated his intention to remove Liam. A look of annoyance crossed her face, gone as soon as it appeared. _My girl,_ Melbourne thought, _will never forget her early lesson in maintaining a public façade._ He knew he had no right to interfere with the prince's public duty, as defined only by the queen. And he found he didn't particularly care, at that moment. The boy had stood for hours, shuffled from one landmark to another, and borne it all well. But he was only a child, and enough was enough.

Victoria gently nudged the boy, and Melbourne saw Liam's shoulders sag with relief as soon as he understood he had been released. Holding Lily's fist in one hand, he took hold of Liam's with the other and made his way out.

Billy was easily spotted, by his height alone. At six feet five inches, he towered above the crowd. Even Melbourne's nearly six-foot height fell a full head shorter than the other man.

He remembered Victoria's last words, what she clearly meant to be a parting shot, and grinned.

"Billy, let's head to the Palace and find our quarters."

The Palace of Holyroodhouse was the sovereign's abode in Scotland. Victoria had described it to Melbourne in those earlier letters as a gloomy place. Melbourne had some dim recollection of seeing the palace once, when on holiday. The only impression that remained was of a great stone pile steeped in history, yet feeling faintly forlorn and abandoned.

When their carriage slowed he looked out and saw with some dismay that an honour guard stood at parade rest and a band of the 93rd Highlanders was stationed in the quadrangle of the court.

"Poor fellows will stand like that until relieved," Cameron said, whistling low. "All for Her Majesty's sake."

They got out, Melbourne carrying his daughter and Billy the little prince, and followed a beribboned major up the usual stairs. They were led through two of the large gloomy reception rooms and shown into a sprawling warren of private chambers. Melbourne had no opportunity to form an impression; he was swiftly surrounded by familiar faces and was gratefully aware that finally the public spectacle was over.

Baroness Lehzen clucked and crooned over her babies. She directed a bevy of young maids to take the children away and called for bathwater, nightgowns and a nourishing broth.

A London butler stood nearby, overseeing the arrangements, while footmen and housemaids who had ridden up in the baggage train bustled about. It was a friendly, homely feeling, Melbourne mused, to have one's own servants and the comfort they provided at hand.

His own valet relieved him of coat and hat and held out his long paisley dressing gown.

"Where did they put you, Billy? Shall we go see your quarters?"

Cameron showed no interest. "Wherever it is, I've slept in worse," he answered easily. "Do you think they have food in this place?"

There was a fully provisioned butler's pantry with stove and burners, adequate to the needs of the household. Wherever the full kitchens were, only a resourceful scullery maid knew. She had been sent by Louise Lehzen to pilfer whatever staples she could find and had returned bearing bread, smoked meat, cheese, coffee and eggs.

"Her little majesty is a trooper," Cameron said, stretching and yawning. "I'm beat from standing about and no one expects me to make speeches or grin like a monkey while some long-winded fool blathers on."

"She has stamina," Melbourne agreed.

"I'm surprised she gave you leave to depart. She generally wants her Lord M close at hand."

"Mmm," Melbourne murmured noncommittally. "Wine? Whiskey? Need I ask?"

Cameron laughed, and Melbourne joined in, pouring them each two fingers of the fiery liquor. A footman set out plates of sliced bread and sausage, and the men ate in silence.

"You've been quiet and keeping to yourself," Melbourne finally said diffidently. "Everything all right, I hope?"

Billy Cameron, normally an exemplar of cocksure ease, made no witty reply. In fact, he didn't respond at all for so long that Melbourne gave him a sidelong glance. Framed by shoulder-length hair, the ruggedly handsome face looked pensive, even sad.

"Eh, I'll do, won't I? Not much I _can_ do about it, but…m'mother died some weeks past."

Saying the words seemed to break some internal dam, so that his face crumpled and tears filled his eyes.

Melbourne's heart went out to him, remembering the sense of loss and _lostness_ he'd felt when his own mother passed. Lady Melbourne had been a strong, dynamic presence well into her sixties, and then suddenly went into a decline. Like Caro, dropsy had lain waste to a handsome woman, so that at the end she was bloated and infirm. Unlike Caro, his mother's mind had remained sharp to the end. With her last breath she had exhorted him to achieve the greatness for which she had prepared him since childhood.   _And what would you think now, Mother?_ He often wondered. _Have I risen high enough to suit you?_

"We're never ready, are we?" he said now, to himself as well as Cameron. They spoke then of mothers and sons, of strong-willed women who carved their own path. Cameron's mother had been an acquaintance of Melbourne's from the Dublin days. She had been abbess of a brothel that catered to Irish gentry and English expatriates. How ironic it had been that she reappeared in his life – at his bedside, no less – when she'd accompanied Victoria to Melbourne Hall on that desperate ride.

Billy allowed the tears to flow, wiping them away with the lack of concern possible only in very _masculine_ men who had nothing to prove by false stoicism. At times, Melbourne wiped moisture from his own eyes, part and parcel of remembering the long-ago days when he was his mother's pet. In her eyes he could do anything, and he had never felt so invincible since, as though anything was possible for Lady Melbourne's boy. The future promised only an unending stream of pleasure, then.

The bottle had reached its halfway point when a clatter of boots in the corridor announced the arrival of some great party.

It was, in fact, only the queen, but she mounted the stairs surrounded by an honor guard of Highlanders led by a pipesman. Hearing the wail of bagpipes, Melbourne exchanged a wincing glance with Cameron, and then both men stood in anticipation of her entrance.

"…and that damned fancy dress ball tonight," he muttered under his breath. Cameron shot him a commiserating look. He heartily hoped that her petulance had gone, knowing his own temper to be uncertain.

It was not to be. She was livid when she saw Billy, more so when she saw evidence that they had been enjoying one another's company in her absence. Against her wishes, Melbourne told himself, interested to see what she would do next.

"Lord Melbourne," she said curtly. "Lord Cameron, it is customary for the queen to dismiss those whose services we do not require."

Billy tossed his mane of hair back, and quickly covered his mouth with his hand to conceal an amused grin. _Discretion being the better part of valor,_ Melbourne thought approvingly.

"I will leave you gentlemen to your refreshments," she snapped. "Lehzen, send for Skerrett at once. And show me to my private chamber."

Melbourne waited with Cameron, feeling like a miscreant awaiting the headmaster's convenience. Except at Eton he had only once incurred chastisement. Once was enough to convince him that agreeabilty was more sensible than bravado.

When she returned, Victoria had exchanged her walking dress for a lighter frock and her hair hung loose around her face. She was wreathed in smiles and dipped her head in a charming, girlish gesture, begging their pardon for her surliness. She took a glass of wine and a slice of bread-and-butter, and settled herself on the divan.

"Have you been fitted for your costume, Billy?" Victoria asked. It seemed to Melbourne she was deliberately ignoring him.

Cameron only laughed and shook his head. "Not I, ma'am. I don't play dress up, any more than Lord Melbourne does."

"Oh, but Lord Melbourne has a costume," she said smoothly, and her smile was that of a complacent cat toying with a mouse. Melbourne leaned back, unamused, and listened as she sweetly bombarded Cameron with comments and questions to draw him out.

Billy bantered with her, but his usual playful near-insolence was lacking. Melbourne suddenly had enough, and stood so suddenly his movement startled them.

"Billy, you may leave us now," he said, his own voice kind. Cameron rose and directed a jerky half-bow to Victoria, then winked at Melbourne.

"Come into the bedroom, Victoria," he said curtly, without waiting for her to follow.

"How dare you?" she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot of the servants. _Presumably_ out of earshot, that is. Melbourne knew servants heard everything, but there was a need for pretense nonetheless.

"Dare, ma'am? Enlighten me." He leaned against the bureau and crossed his arms.

"Yes, dare. I _told_ you I wanted Billy to stay with me if you left."

Exasperated, Melbourne threw up his hands.

"Give it a rest, Victoria. At seven-and-twenty you are too old for such childish games. They don't become you."

Victoria gasped, going first white, then red. "How – how _dare_ you? What do you mean, games?"

"This toying with Billy for sport, only because you know it's safe. You do it to inspire me with jealousy, no doubt, but also because it gratifies your ego to know that he is devoted to you. If there was anything to be jealous _of_ , have no doubt, I would put a stop to it. But neither you nor Billy intend to pursue any indiscretion, so it's only cruel and petty for you to play with him as you do."

As Melbourne watched, not able to meet her eyes for then his resolve would crumble, Victoria's face went scarlet.

"How dare you assume I wouldn't – he wouldn't – are you so sure of yourself, Lord Melbourne? You should have learned the folly of that already."

 _Low blow_ , _Victoria_ , Melbourne said silently. She pulled no punches when she was in a temper, going for blood.

"Well, convince me otherwise. _Do_ you intend a flirtation? An affair of the heart? Do you imagine yourself caught up in a grand passion? _Do you?_ " He'd resorted to shouting the last, and immediately turned away to gain control of his temper.

"No," Victoria said finally, sullen as a child.

"'No' what, Victoria?" he prodded.

"No, I do not intend to flirt or – or to be unfaithful. You _know_ that. It's unkind of you to make me say it."

Melbourne laughed harshly. "Unkind of _me?_ It's unkind of you, to play the coquette with a man you know is devoted to you. What about _his_ feelings? And what about mine? What is the result you intend with this game?"

"I have no other way to wound you," Victoria snapped. "You have – you have everything. My heart, and those of the women you've loved before. Your memories and your history. And I have – I have only you."

"I won't be placated, Victoria. Not this time. We'll have it out, once and for all." In point of fact, he was already weary of the ill feelings being aired and wanted only to retreat.

"There is _nothing_ which only we share. _Everything_ was shared by someone else, first. You teach me the language of flowers, but only after you played _that_ game with another female. You make Brocket Hall my home, but it was Caroline's home first. We go to bloody _Scotland_ , a place you know I loathe, and only after we've already arrived do you think to mention that you've been _here_ before –" she ran out of breath and stopped, heaving great sobbing gasps.

"And everything _we_ share, you will someday share with someone else. Another man will be at your side when Lily weds, when Liam earns his degree at Cambridge, when you come back to _bloody_ Scotland. That is the bargain we made. Do you regret it?"

"No!" Victoria gasped. "Never! And I will not, I would not-"

"You will and you must, darling. I have lived before, forty full years before you were born, and you will live after I am gone. It would be a poor way to remember me, if you were to withdraw from life and cease living only because I did. I hope I've taught you to live, not die, without me."

Melbourne saw the moment all fight went out of her. Victoria slumped, boneless, and might have fallen if he hadn't caught her in his arms. He crooned nonsense syllables into her hair, stroking her back with his palms to soothe her.

"Do you still love me? Can you forgive me?" she murmured against his breast, his shirt soaked with her tears. "I don't know _why_ I've been so very irritable. It's as though _everything_ made me angry and impatient today. I was barely civil when the Lord Mayor brought in his Orphan's Choir."

"Sweetheart, that's not the point. I will _always_ love you and there's nothing to forgive. We have rubbed against each other before and will do so again. Living together is not easy for anyone, although –" he smirked, remembering his youthful observation. "It's considerably easier in a thousand rooms than two. Are you over your petulance? If you want to fight another round, I need to recover my strength."

Victoria groaned, startling both of them with the guttural sound that escaped her. She turned away from Melbourne and clung to the bedpost, doubled over.

"Send for Skerrett, please. And leave me. I will – I need to be alone."

Melbourne reached for her out of concern, then he understood.

"Don't you _dare_ say it, William," Victoria warned, her eyes narrowed into mere slits.

"Of course not, my love. I will find your maid. Shall I send our regrets to Buccleuch?" Melbourne held his breath hopefully, and was relieved when Victoria nodded.

"Say only that I am fatigued from the journey. I will be recovered tomorrow." She wrinkled her nose and made a moue of distaste at what the next few days held in store. Her courses were irregular, but when they arrived they came with a vengeance. Melbourne wondered whether she would be out of bed on the morrow, except by sheer grit and determination. If men had to endure what women did –

"May I come to you later, when you've settled in bed? I want to hold you. It's been a challenging day. I confess, I like the business of discord no better than you. Some couples thrive on constant conflict, but I think we are not like them."

"Yes, please," Victoria said, her own voice subdued. _Poor girl_ , he wanted to say, _you look miserable._ Long experience with women at such times prompted him to hold his tongue.

"I will have Skerrett warm a hot water bottle while she's at it," Melbourne said, smiling when she blushed. He was not supposed to understand feminine matters, despite having lived under the same roof as a mother, sister, nieces and two wives. "To warm the sheets for me, in this draughty palace."


	17. Chapter 17

**_Parliament House, Old Town, Edinburgh (just off the High Street section of the Royal Mile, beside St Giles Cathedral)_ **

"Shall we talk about _flirtation_?"

Victoria paused, eyes wide with alarm.

Melbourne, comfortable in his nightshirt and dressing gown, lounged in an armchair of gigantic proportions. The upholstered back and arms smelled faintly of mildew, but it was more than tolerably well padded. He was able to stretch out, so if she denied him her bed, he would pass the night well enough in place.

Victoria had supped on the same restorative broth Lehzen prepared for the children and swallowed a few bites of toasted bread. Melbourne was touched and amused when he saw that it was been cut into triangles and the crusts trimmed away. He himself had dined alone, taking the beefsteak and potatoes a resourceful equerry found far from Victoria's upset stomach.

She emerged from her bed swathed in a voluminous night dress and wrapped in a shawl, padding barefoot across the floor. She avoided his glance, head lowered, shoulders rounded. On her return trip Melbourne laid his book aside and patted his knee.

"Must we?"

Melbourne huffed a gentle laugh and took hold of her hand.

"Unless there's something else you prefer to discuss."

"I don't want to fight anymore. When such foul moods come over me I – I am not myself."

"You misunderstand, my love. I have no wish to berate you, and perhaps I spoke too harshly. Flirting can be a fine amusement, when done right. Shall I explain?"

She looked like a child on the verge of adolescence, and not only because of her stature. Victoria's piquant little face would always look younger than her years. She was, for better or worse, a pure spirit. Scheming and deception and all the stressors those brought were foreign to her forthright nature.

Melbourne patted his leg again and tugged gently at her hand. When she gingerly lowered herself onto his thigh, as though fearing her weight might injure him, he chuckled and settled her more comfortably into place.

"What do you know of flirtation, my girl?" Her dear face was curtained by brown locks in freefall. Melbourne gently pushed the hair back and stroked her cheek.

"It's…it's wrong, of course. I _know_ that but-"

"Not always _wrong_ , love, and hardly ever so if done in the right spirit."

Victoria's blue eyes widened in surprise.

"Flirtation is not necessarily a prelude to lovemaking. Only very young men, and those entirely in thrall to their animal nature, consider flirtation synonymous with foreplay."

"Whatever do you mean, William?" Melbourne noted the furrowed brows and traced a crease in her fair skin to smooth it.

" _Flirtation_ as practiced in the very sophisticated _salons_ and the drawing rooms of – well, people of my acquaintance, is no more or less than verbal jousting of a very delicate nature. Scintillating wordplay, banter, innuendo – when used properly, these add zest to social interaction. But it is _de rigueur_ to choose one's sparring partner well. Very young ladies, those who are in the market for marriage, and those who might misinterpret such interest are never suitable candidates."

"You make it sound as though there are rules for such a thing," Victoria said primly.

Her lids were lowered so that her lashes cast a shadow across those sweeping, almost feline cheekbones and Melbourne gazed admiringly at the picture she made. _Such an innocent!_ He marveled at the isolation of Kensington that kept her painfully naïve and socially awkward at the age her contemporaries were spreading their wings. The Duchess had claimed she sought to protect her daughter from unsavory influences and undesirable companions, but Melbourne privately opined that her mother was more concerned about preserving her own vanity. A nubile teenage daughter posed competition, no matter how unwitting, to a vain, aging parent.

"Why, there are rules of course. Unspoken, understood, call it _tribal knowledge_ if you wish. Although some of our authoresses have done an admirable job describing those _rules_ in context. So…" Melbourne chose his words carefully.

"As I said, the right partner makes all the difference. That choice is not a conscious thing. Actual deliberation would be predatory, and strip away all sense of fun and spontaneity. A gentleman must consider the lady's station – she must be a social equal, so she does not feel _obliged_ to reciprocate – and it's best if she is safely married to a complacent husband.

"She must not be overly serious, or pious. Beauty of face and form are not important, but stylishness most definitely is. A lady who has defined tastes, whether _au courant_ or Bohemian, is much more likely to possess the confidence and well-developed mind necessary for witty _repartee_." Melbourne smirked at Victoria's apparent confusion.

"Take my mother. She was an accomplished flirt, and later in life when the ravages of time had taken their toll on her looks, the connections she'd made through flirtation remained strong. You know of her correspondence with the poet?" Melbourne rarely used his name. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Their letters were so frequent, the thoughts and sentiments they shared so intimate, that some suspected a carnal connection. Preposterous! Mother was over sixty, had put on a great deal of weight and rarely left her bed, when Byron declared her the best friend he ever had. I did not relish the notion that my mother advised Caro's lover on his amorous pursuits, nor that they spoke heart-to-heart, but I admired the conquest she made in him."

"Do _you_ flirt, William?" Victoria's tone was both stern and quavering. Clearly, he thought, she dreaded the truth he  might reveal.

"Not so very much anymore, darling. That is due the constraints of my position, and the tittering scandalmongers who would make much of my least attention towards another female. But once…ah…once, pleasant flirtations were my chief consolation."

"So…it would be harmless, if you were to flirt? I think Lady Dalmeny already flirts with you a great deal."

"Young Lady Dalmeny does not _flirt_. Her mother was a very accomplished flirt, and one of my oldest friends. But very young, and especially very beautiful women are made to be looked at. They are rarely interesting to others until they cease being interested in themselves. What you call flirting is only her need to be admired. I think she's a dead bore. I am not drawn to her company or conversation and would feel the same if I were at liberty to proceed." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the finger wearing his ring.

"Why do you dislike my flirting with Billy?" Victoria asked. Melbourne decided she was sincerely puzzled.

"My girl, haven't you been listening? What is the first rule I told you? Neither party's heart must be engaged, to the extent that one or the other will be misled. I don't fear Billy will fail to understand; he will understand only too well, if you use him only to wound me. I don't want our Billy to be hurt, and I'm selfish enough to prefer the same for myself."

"Then I can never _flirt_ , or be flirted with," she said, sounding disappointed. "You make it all sound so very exciting and pleasurable." Melbourne privately agreed with Victoria's assessment, but not for the reason she might think. She was too serious, her mind too straightforward, to enjoy an idle flirtation.

"I didn't say that," he answered lightly. "I think Devonshire does a very creditable job of flirting with you."

"He says silly things to make me laugh," Victoria retorted. "And flatters me excessively, so I know he is not serious and intends no offense."

"There you have it," Melbourne cupped a hand around the back of her neck and guided her lips to his. He explored her mouth at a leisurely pace, the tip of his tongue gliding along smooth teeth and her soft inner lip. When he released her, Victoria nuzzled at the skin of his neck, making him shiver.

"Enough," he protested weakly. "It is unfair to start things you cannot finish."

"You have a flirtation established," Melbourne continued. "And make no mistake, there would be others if you gave them half a chance."

"Did you ever flirt with me, William? I don't remember anything quite like you describe. You were very kind, and careful and patient with me. But…I don't think you _flirted_."

"I did not," Melbourne agreed firmly.

"Why? Because I was the queen and you were my minister?"

"Because I knew I loved you from the start."

He wrapped his dressing gown around them both and held her against his heart.

**

The government had been approached for assistance by landowners that summer. There were early signs that widespread failure of potato crops loomed. The potato blight spread through the Highlands and threatened that winter's food supply. Sir Charles Trevelyan, Assistant Secretary to the Treasury, had journeyed to Edinburgh as a result of the early notice. He had reached out to Melbourne privately, asking whether the queen would meet a delegation of landowners. The Privy Council had agreed, if only Victoria adhered to free market principals and did not promise direct subsidy payments. It was the responsibility of the landlords to provide relief, they emphasized.

Victoria would meet with representative land owners and the Free Church of Scotland. Despite the constraints of her council, Parliament and prevailing economic doctrine, Victoria concurred with Trevelyan that the people must not, under any circumstances, be allowed to starve.

"I know I must make no promises, William. And yet I feel strongly it is my duty to assure them that we will not permit widespread catastrophe. There must be a food distribution system in place before winter."

Victoria had been dressed in a dark blue gown. She wore the sash of the Garter over her bodice and one of the Scottish plaids popularized by her Uncle George over her shoulders. She would meet with the delegation in the Supreme Courts building, formerly the Parliament House, on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.

"I would suggest only that you make no direct, specific promises," he said. "Out of an abundance of caution, you cannot appear to give assurances which usurp the authority of your Parliament."

"I understand," Victoria inclined her head in agreement. "And I know my authority is limited. But the people _must_ feel that the Crown understands the peril they face."

The oldest part of Parliament House was Parliament Hall. An oak trussed flat roof rested on carved stone corbels over a wide expanse of central gathering space. Victoria walked beside Melbourne, Lord Trevelyan on her other hand, and they admired the artwork. Two fireplaces were carved with scenes from the Merchants of Venice, and statutes of the Viscounts Melville adorned the north wall. Melbourne pointed out a bust of Harry Erskine and Victoria recognized Sir Walter Scott.

" _'Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun, must separate Constance from the nun. Oh! what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive,_ '" Melbourne murmured. "Quite the way with words, for a Tory."

The bright, conspiratorial look Victoria showed him warmed Melbourne's heart. He recalled so many other fond _firsts_ with her, only her – exploring Buckingham House, visiting the new House of Lords, so many more. If only she knew…

"It is my first time here," he told her pointedly. "As boys we had little interest in civic history."

Victoria shifted slightly in response, bringing their arms more closely together. Her eyes were warm with gratification at his attempt to make amends.

They were led to the very front of the viewing chamber, to the dais upon which the justices normally sat. Victoria gazed out at the men looking back at her, turning her head subtly to make brief eye contact with as many as she could. Melbourne admired the technique. It was entirely self-taught and stemmed from her excellent instincts. Those present whose eyes had met hers would ever after feel the power of that momentary connection. Her gesture made loyalists out of the most ardent republicans.

As Londoners and outlanders, it was their place to listen. As representatives of the government it was their place to act. That, at least, was how the Treasury Secretary saw it. Melbourne's own opinion was decidedly different. In a constitutional monarchy the sovereign was a figurehead, no more. Even if she refrained from making promises on behalf of the House of Commons – which held the power of the purse – anything Trevelyan said would appear to have royal mandate.

Crops were predicted to fail in about three-quarters of the crofting region, they heard, putting a population of about 200,000 at risk of starvation by winter. The Free Church wanted to distribute aid before the need was severe and promised that such relief would be given equitably regardless of denomination.

The government's first action would be to ensure Highland landlords met their responsibilities to provide famine relief to their tenants. Of those present in chamber, fully two thirds were land owners and their response varied considerably. Some expressed willingness but protested they lacked the resources, while others were in genuinely perilous financial conditions and could not meet such expectations.

Victoria listened attentively to debate on the subject, Melbourne less so. He knew himself well enough to concede that he lacked the progressive inspiration which fueled the social reformers, nor did he especially attach himself to the tales of woe which abounded wherever one turned. _For ye have the poor always with you_ was too frequently quoted perhaps _,_ but it was a fine sentiment upon which to base one's acceptance of unpleasant circumstances for which there was no simple solution.

That Victoria felt otherwise, and strongly, was right and proper. She was the sovereign and the moral compass, and if there was a single overriding reason to maintain the monarchy it was to provide continuity and a sense of true north to buffer the winds of change. It was no longer his job to guide public policy. In fact, he had never entirely accepted that it _was_ his place to guide rather than merely implement. He was now the queen's consort, an entirely apolitical role that barely existed in the public sphere. He would privately warn her off any course which would put her at odds with the elected government and counsel public neutrality on controversial matters. In the public realm his only role was to be first among equals, in pledging fealty toward the sovereign. _And in private….ah, in private_ , Melbourne thought with relish. In private, it was his duty and his privilege to love her and cherish her.

As the fifth speaker lumbered forward to address the bench, Melbourne felt a faint breeze from the quick motion of her hand.

Victoria had dared a brief touch, nudging his elbow. When he responded, he saw the distress in her eyes. Her pallor was marked, and her lips pinched tightly closed. If he'd considered, he might have recalled the impropriety of a mere consort speaking without invitation. He might even have hesitated out of reluctance to appear as if he were usurping her authority. Instead Melbourne reacted in the moment. He rose to his nearly six-foot height and looked down on the constituents below.

"Gentlemen, Her Majesty has been most profoundly moved by the circumstances facing her Highland subjects. She will raise those concerns with her ministers and with the Members of Parliament and advocate for fair and equitable relief."

While the former next speaker stared agog, deprived of his chance to pontificate, Melbourne turned on his heel and extended his arm.

No sooner had they clattered away from Parliament House, as soon as he dared, Melbourne wrapped sharply on the wall of the carriage and called for the driver to stop. He held Victoria's shoulders while she heaved miserably, then he wiped her face with his handkerchief and held a small silver flask to her lips.

"Sip and spit, only to cleanse your mouth," he encouraged. When she'd done so, Victoria slumped back and exhaled raggedly.

Their apartments were deserted. No butler met them at the door, and the grand foyer and sitting rooms where all vacant. Melbourne helped Victoria to her chamber.

"I might have to play lady's maid," he warned.

"You _will not_ ," Victoria snapped. "Pray don't tease me. Find Lehzen."

The Baroness had not abandoned them, although she complained about the work ethic of those who had. Maidservants run off to make eyes at the guardsmen, footmen feeling the aftereffects of revelry in the public houses.

"You weren't expected back until afternoon," she added grudgingly, reluctant to excuse such slackers.

Melbourne only had to say the queen needed her, and Lehzen leapt to her feet. She paused only to look back at the next generation of nurslings.

"Go," he said. "I think I can manage to care for the children."

**

She blushed prettily, and he thought her lovely despite her disarray. _Perhaps because of it_ , he considered. _En dishabille, one sees only the girl, not the crown._

Lehzen made her nursling comfortable beneath freshly laundered sheets. Victoria felt no embarrassment with her old governess and Melbourne was both grateful and relieved that she was cared for so well. _There are some boundaries best observed within marriage, so that romance remains alive._ Her words, primly spoken, but he could not disagree. So long as they had the means – and when would they not? – he would willingly cede his wife's care to his wife's old governess.

"You look worried, Lord Melbourne," the Baroness had said, pausing with an armful of clean napkins. "There is no need."

He wasn't worried, he thought with surprise, until he realized he had been. However natural and inevitable such discomfort was, he hated to see her suffer. His own sister had once regaled him with vivid descriptions of her suffering, until the birth of five children somehow accustomed her body to its monthly travails.

She sipped a ginger water concoction and slept with the help of a drop of laudanum. She awakened complaining of a voracious appetite. Nothing from their meagre stores would satisfy her.

"I could eat a _horse_!" Victoria exclaimed with great passion. "And I feel a slug-a-bed, having slept half the day."

She went to the narrow, mullioned window which looked down on the city below. Dusk lasted longer in the North, and gas lights were only just being lit.

"Do you really feel well?" Melbourne asked her cautiously. "You were quite overcome…"

"I wasn't _sick_ ," Victoria protested. "I was – oh, you can't understand. But now I feel fine, and terribly hungry. Could we send out to –"

"If you really feel well, I could take you out," he said tentatively, a plan only just formulating.

Many of the public houses surrounding the university were rowdy places unfit for any virtuous young lady, but nearer the law courts he knew there were some respectable chop houses. These catered to the provincial attorneys who came to plead their cases before the high court and the sober, solid businessmen who trusted their financial affairs to the Bank of Scotland. Here, she was even less recognizable than she was in London and no one knew or cared who he was at all. With Billy along, for companionship as much as safety, and one of the female body-guards assigned to the nursery, he thought they could manage tolerably well.

" _Out?_ " Victoria breathed, her eyes alight. "Oh, yes please."

Melbourne laughed. "The Baroness won't like it, so I suggest we prevaricate. Perhaps a trip to the Chapel, to sightsee?"

They laughed together, and plotted, then Melbourne went off to make the necessary arrangements while Victoria was bathed and dressed. Sauntering down the interior corridor that separated their private chambers from the more pubic spaces, he rubbed his hands together gleefully. On the morrow, she would receive yet another group of dignitaries, and tomorrow night they would return to Parliament House, where the queen and His Grace the Duke of Melbourne – for so he thought of himself, in his public role – would be guests of the provosts at a formal dinner in the Banqueting Hall. But tonight – tonight was theirs and theirs alone. Who would have ever imagined, once upon a time, that simply taking one's wife out on the town absent a military contingent would be such a delightful adventure?


	18. Chapter 18

> i

Prevailing winds permitted the carriage window to be opened on this leg of the journey. Malodorous coal smoke was traveling in another direction, or so the chief engineer had informed them. Thus, Melbourne and Victoria were able to enjoy the fresh Highland air, still smelling of the near constant misty rain.

They were sprawled at leisure on the long blue velvet settee. Victoria leaned against his chest, toying with his hand where it lay across her midriff. Melbourne could feel her utter relaxation in the heaviness of her limp weight in his arms. At such times he reflected that if he'd given her nothing else, this was in his gift, this respite from the heavy responsibilities she bore.

They had opened their eyes in tandem that morning, to the screeching of bagpipes in the quadrangle. The Provosts' Banquet had been the second late night, and both had slept heavily until well past morning light.

North Bridge station had been opened to traffic on 22 June 1846, but the queen's presence marked its formal commencement. To his surprise, Melbourne had been invited to speak at the ceremony. His government had presided over Parliament's 1836 Railways Act, which had authorized the building of a new Edinburgh-Glasgow line. Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on one's view – construction had been successfully thwarted until long after the end of his ministry. New hotels and shops along Prince Street and formed an alliance with the North British Railroad, and finally the station was built.

Melbourne had never relished speaking in the House – he knew he lacked the single-minded focus for gifted rhetoric – but in front of a congenial crowd, he thought he did not come off badly. They laughed along at his mildly self-deprecating asides, nodded agreement at his bland praise of the inevitability of measured progress and, surprisingly, interrupted with applause when he recognized the need to retain the character of their Old Town neighborhood and to find the right balance between progress and stability.

When he was done he sat beside his queen and while a succession of senior executives from the North British Railway took their turn at the podium, entertained her with a patter of increasingly naughty asides. His absurd nonsense riffs had the desired effect. Victoria's eyes sparkled with mirth and her cheeks were prettily flushed when she finally declared the new rail line officially open.

There was something about such surreptitiousness that emphasized the intimacy of their union. When the departure whistle blew and the train lurched into movement, when the door to their parlor carriage was closed and locked, they had fallen on one another laughing uproariously.

If what transpired then was not entirely his doing, it still fell on him to resist manfully. Victoria had found him through the encumbrance of clothing and ignoring his weak protests, proceeded with all the deft assurance of an accomplished courtesan. Afterward, tucking himself away, Melbourne had felt decidedly sheepish and Victoria wore a smug self-satisfied smile.

"Sometimes it _is_ more virtuous to receive what is offered," she'd said in a pious tone.

"So that's what made  _Mona Lisa_  smile,” he'd quipped in return.

"Do you think anyone suspected?" she asked apropos of nothing.

"Do you mean-? I think not. I did not – we did not take very long."

"No, silly! Just like a man, to think only of that. I mean – the other night. Do you think I behaved quite _normally?_ Like an ordinary woman? I did try very hard, and it was such fun to talk and laugh and listen to the dear people."

"Ah, our outing. You did wonderfully, and no, I don't think anyone _suspected_. People generally see what they expect to see, and what they saw was a party dining out, one of any number of others doing the same."

They had opted to walk, slipping out of the castle by a tradesmen's entrance. Victoria had dressed in the plainest gown she had, in a sober shade of slate blue. She had her dresser unpin the lace trim from the brim of an old-fashioned bonnet, Skerrett protesting that bonnets were no longer worn by fashion forward ladies. Victoria had only nodded complacently and excused her apparent lapse in taste with a vague reference to _viewing the chapel by candlelight_. George joined the party, with a new friend in tow, introduced as Patrick, an under clerk to Lord Justice David Boyle, Scotland's Solicitor General. Cameron, as instructed, brought along one of his female underlings. She was a bold, friendly girl with black eyes and hair and a brogue as melodic as Billy's.

The law clerk guide led them through Grassmarket, which he explained had once been the site for public hangings. Subsequent iterations included livestock auctioning and fish market, as well as the 1736 riots. Now it comprised a grassy central square where open air booths set up by day and bands played at night. The square was surrounded on four sides by pubs, restaurants and shops. Reading the signs, Melbourne had seen a milliner, a bait-and-tackle shop, printer, greengrocer and one corner shop which proudly boasted it was _Watchmaker to the Queen_. That last had attracted Victoria's attention and piqued her curiosity. They had examined the contents of each store window, but she stood transfixed by the dusty display of pocket watches and mantle clocks.

"Which queen, William?" Victoria had asked, tilting her head in an adorably confused way. The innocent question struck them all as so comical that they laughingly repeated it at intervals for the rest of the evening.

The White Hart Inn was one of three hotels in the immediate vicinity, a venerable old establishment that had accommodated Dafoe, the Wordsworths and Robert Burns at various times. Their public room attracted a steady stream of regular customers from the law offices, banks and trading offices in the area.

Melbourne had been unable to resist the urge to hover protectively, unsure how Victoria would react to being in the very midst of unaffected middle-class people. He himself had far more experience of the world, but most of his social contacts had been people of his own class and station, excepting only his neighbors and tenants. Victoria had been reared in isolation extreme even for one of royal birth, and had never been truly _incognito_ , unrecognized. As a result she was unsure exactly _who_ and _how_ to be.

To Melbourne's surprise and relief, she was exactly as she should be, if she had been who she pretended. Their fellow diners, if they noticed at all, saw only a shy young wife of comfortable but not ostentatious means, dining in public – still no common thing – with her husband and companions.

She listened more than she talked, paying close attention to the conversations taking place all around them. The grill room's low ceilings and closely spaced tables made eavesdropping part of the entertainment.

The serving woman who took their orders had a plainspoken, friendly manner honed, Melbourne assumed, on the ever-changing roster of guests who passed through her establishment. Victoria observed her with open fascination, peppering her with questions that might have been intrusive except for her guileless curiosity. What wage the woman earned and whether it was sufficient for her needs, the cost of rent and shoes and other necessities, Victoria avidly absorbed the answers.

Billy teased her after, with the offhand jocularity of a brother, and when Victoria responded in kind Melbourne could not but observe how winsomely she _flirted_ when she had no intention of doing so. Like many women, he thought, she is far more charming when she doesn't exert herself to be thought so.

At some point during the evening – Melbourne could not remember precisely how – he was enjoined to settle a dispute between several gentlemen at an adjacent table. They had been debating pro and con the aftereffects of the Burgh Reform bill passed some years prior. He had struggled to recall what he knew of it – he'd been Home Secretary then, and not particularly attuned to matters across the border – and was pleased when his old law training returned to him. What he opined was aligned so closely with the views held by the majority that he was slapped on the back and required to drink with them.

When they left a watchman was already making rounds, calling out the hour. Victoria's light cloth cloak proved no match for the damp night air and he had wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, matching her strides to his. They parted company with the others at the end of the corridor, George and his new friend departing in silence to continue their acquaintance in a more private setting. The young woman tasked with protecting their children dutifully went off to relieve her colleague. As he guided his wife down the medieval stone passage toward the King's apartment, Melbourne had glanced over his shoulder to see Cameron standing alone, a solitary figure, watching them all walk away.

A tap at the interconnecting door roused them both. Lehzen came in holding Liam's hand and one of the maidservants who assisted her followed, carrying Lily.

"What's this?" Melbourne asked, pretending displeasure.

"I'm sorry, Lord Melbourne. The children are restless. It is not good for them, to be confined on this train or in that drafty old castle."

" _IwantMarynaliceandLiammisseshisponyand_ …" Lily wailed, leaning so far out from the arms which contained her that she and the maid nearly toppled forward. Melbourne leapt up and caught her.

"What's this? Bored? Mama and I are more closely at hand than we are in London." Melbourne sat back down, adjusting his daughter's squirming body on his knee. He knew she would speak for both of them. If her uncomplaining brother was more articulate, he was far less likely to speak his mind.

Several breathless minutes later, struggling to parse the flow of outrage, expressed vehemently albeit in Lily's lisping still-babyish fashion, Melbourne exchanged a look with Victoria that he knew every parent would recognize.

"I suppose our princess has answered the question of bringing them with us to Italy."

"I don't want to go to 'tallee," Lily interjected. "I want to be home. Don't like being _brought_."

"Which home is that, Lily?" Victoria asked archly, in just the wrong teasing tone. Melbourne inwardly winced, expecting fireworks. To his relief, Lily only showed her mother a withering look.

" _Palace,_ mommy. Or _Bwocket House_. _Our_ home. Don't you _know_ where home is? Papa, tell her."

"How about we visit Glasgow, where the people are waiting to cheer us and wave? And then we can turn about and go home," Melbourne offered hopefully, counting on Lily to later forget his several omissions.

"William, Lord Aberdeen invited us to visit. He made major alterations to the original castle at Balmoral. George says it’s all rather grand. He and Albert stayed there in '42." Victoria's pronouncement was made in a tone that hinted at her desire to thwart Lily's victory.

"And did you particularly desire to visit, ma'am? If not, I think Aberdeen can be put off."

Melbourne watched the play of expressions on her face. Victoria persisted in the belief that their daughter should not be catered to, as her father was wont to do. He had conceded as much, when the effect of her willfulness had nearly resulted in a tragedy.

"Another Scottish castle? _Balmoral_? No, I do not particularly look forward to it. George would be more than happy to go and give our regrets. Let him take – oh, let him go with Sir Henry. The one will shoot and fish with Lord Aberdeen and the other, exclaim over the improvements."

"There you have it, Lily. Mama agrees that we will make one more stop. The people will cheer you and you may wave to them from the viewing platform. Then, as soon as the engineer can turn us around, we will head home."

Lily considered his proposal judiciously, then nodded assent.

" _Home_ ," she repeated, waving a finger sternly. Then, brightening, "Mama, can you make a baby be be at home waiting? So I can show her off to Mary and Alice?"

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

During the warm months of summer, some of the inner boroughs were no place for those with faint hearts or weak stomachs. No gentleman ventured farther than Covent Garden, except on nocturnal business and certainly no lady of genteel birth would admit to having laid eyes on Whitechapel, Ramsgate or the Limehouse district. In Lord Melbourne's youth, particularly daring young bucks patronized boxing saloons in the rougher districts, disdaining the polite atmosphere of Gentleman Jackson's club on Bond Street.

Melbourne's equerry had several cologne-scented handkerchiefs at the ready and the young female who accompanied him had the long straps of a suspiciously heavy reticule slung over her shoulder. Billy Cameron himself made a fourth in the chaise. Considering they were visiting Bartholomew Fair in the company of Sir Robert and Lady Peel and his pet police commissioners, Colonel Rowan and Richard Mayne, Melbourne thought the excursion would be safe enough.

Melbourne smelled the acrid tannery stench. He saw pox-scarred prostitutes swinging sadly elongated bare breasts, panderers rolling dice while keeping a close watch on their human capital, and ne'er-do-wells with their caps pulled low. Sailors were recognized by their rolling gait, roistering drunk at midday.

Prince William Albert Augustus sat at his side. The little boy bounced excitedly on the seat, exclaiming at the sights. His innocent eyes saw only wonderful novelties, a little dog walking on hind legs, a monkey not unlike his own collecting coins a little tin cup and a remarkably agile figure pedaling atop a towering unicycle while feverishly juggling pins. _Papa, what is that called? Papa, how does he stay upright? Papa, can we train my monkey to do that? Papa…Papa…Papa._ His shy son became a regular chatterbox, away from the palace and the long shadows cast by his mother and sister.

Bartholomew Fair was set up within the precincts of the Priory at Smithfield, in the City of London. It had been an annual rite marking the end of summer since at least the 12th century, Melbourne knew. Traditionally held the last week in August, the date of the fair had been advanced by a full month as part of a last-ditch effort to salvage what had become no more than sanctioned iniquity.

The Metropolitan Police – or _Peelers_ , as the penny press called them – were midway through a ten-year campaign to clean up the city. Newspapers spoke for the new middle class in demanding an end to vice and depravity.

They were to lead by example, a party of dignitaries bringing their own families to the Fair on opening day. Peel and his pet policemen with their wives on their arms, the Lord Mayor and several aldermen.

Melbourne had left Victoria still abed, reading that morning's newspapers and making note of anything that caught her eye. As often as not, something in one of the papers would pique her interest or concern, and she would dash off a quick request for information.

"Are you ill?" he had asked her, when he saw she had not yet risen. Lying flat on her back in a white frothy gown, hair all tousled, Victoria had resembled a sulky adolescent. An _adorably_ sulky adolescent.

"Why must everyone ask me that? You're as bad as Skerrett." When those brows came together he knew she was annoyed. Not knowing what he might have done, loathe to dispel the lingering tenderness of the night she'd spent in his arms, Melbourne only chuckled and bent to press a kiss on her forehead. _Not warm_ , he thought, relieved. Summer was the time typhus and cholera were rampant, and even the Palace was not immune to such damned plagues.

**

The journey from Glasgow to London, which should have taken little more than a day by rail, had stretched on for three full days and nights. Mudslides in the Lake District had cost them time, and further on crowds were waiting at each station along the way. Once halted – to take on coal and provisions, or tend the great boilers, or simply to give the engineers much-needed rest – there was little hope of leaving again until the Queen made her appearance and spoke from the platform. To make amends for her impatience in Scotland, Victoria had taken extra pains to acknowledge those loyal subjects who stood in the rain for a glimpse of their sovereign.

At one such stop, on a siding in Nottingham, Melbourne had recognized his cousin at the edge of the crowd. So thin as to appear nearly emaciated, zealot's eyes burning bright in the face of an ascetic, he thought he might not have known her at all except for her shabby genteel appearance and fixed stare. _His_ age, or nearly so – a full decade younger - yet this crone appeared twenty years older, and a hard twenty years at that.

He had brought her into the train and introduced her to Victoria, and they spent an awkward thirty minutes over untouched tea and uneaten cakes while she rambled on. To Victoria's polite inquiry, Annabelle explained her presence in the district as _visiting my husband._ She proselytized at length, a doubtful theological argument that the months Byron spent with her had sanctified his soul so that all past sins – and Lord knows, they were may – had been washed away.

"In the blood of the Lamb?" Melbourne had interjected smoothly, unable to resist tweaking the woman's absurdly self-centered doctrine. _It seemed apt enough, considering he drove Caroline to attempt suicide on several occasions,_ he'd told Victoria when they were alone.

But at length they were home, the children running gleefully through the halls to summon pets and beloved caretakers. The journey had not seemed especially arduous to Melbourne, but it had taken a greater toll on Victoria than he'd thought. Two nights of the past five she had failed to rise at eight, when her maid tapped at the door. Such small deviation from routine threw the household into a tizzy, her maid confused and the ladies of the bedchamber grumbling.

Melbourne had only grinned at the memory, kissed her and left her to idle away the morning as she chose.

**

Their party strolled through the fairgrounds as a single well-dressed unit, flanked by uniformed policemen to keep the beggars away. Liam was the only child, and made much of by all. Robert Peel was the father of a large family, and knew how to address a small boy without the ponderous jocularity that tended to make Liam recoil. He had once been a near-daily presence at the palace, and as such no stranger to the boy. He'd soon established an easy rapport with the little prince. Melbourne mused that if he had shown the same ease of manner with her she might have liked him better. He himself dropped back, conversing with Lady Julia Peel while Sir Robert explained to Liam the intricacies of the various mechanical contraptions on display.

They visited a puppet theatre, skirted the tented enclosure where a rendition of _Springheel Jack_ was performed, and gave wide berth to a cow whose intestines were the object of fascination as onlookers peered through the glass panel inserted in the unlucky animal's side.

"He misses having a little one around. My husband has always been at his best with the children," Lady Julia confided.

Melbourne tried to remember the number of little Peels, and stopped counting at six – no, eight. They would all be grown now, he thought, or nearly so, and yet not old enough to make Peel a grandsire.

"Might our prince and princess be joined by another little one, do you think? Or am I indelicate to ask?"

Melbourne weighed her frank curiosity.

"Yes," he answered. "But I will excuse you, since our business is the nation's." _There,_ he thought. _Let her make of that what she will_.

He lost sight of Liam briefly and his heart skipped a beat. Cameron only jerked his chin in the direction of a short side midway where sweet vendors' stalls were set up. Sir Robert came back into view within moments, carrying Liam on his shoulders, with the female assigned to protect the boy walking behind.

When the wind changed direction, bringing with it the rank sewage stench of the Thames, it was taken as a signal to go. Peel crouched down before Liam to bid him farewell, and Lady Julia did likewise. She lifted Liam's chin with a gloved finger.

"Your Royal Highness, you are so like your father. I remember him well. Do you?" Lady Peel looked from her husband to Melbourne and back again. "Perhaps the boy is too young to remember, but surely everyone who sees him must think of our late Prince."

"Am I like Father, Papa?" Liam asked curiously, looking up at Melbourne.

"If Lady Peel says so, William. One never disagrees with a lady."

**

Victoria was closeted with Russell and several ministers, when they returned. Melbourne brought Liam to the nursery and stayed to spend time with his daughter while her brother was scrubbed clean of the stench of the city. He lingered, feeling the old sweet pull of this place where happy, healthy children were cossetted and cherished. The redoubtable Baroness Lehzen, once upon a time predisposed to view him with the deepest mistrust, had first lowered her guard when she saw how deeply affected he was by the innocent peace of her domain.

When they had been fed and bathed and tucked into bed he picked up a book of German fairy tales and read to them, one story, two, then three – Liam exhilarated by his day's adventure and Lily by her awed admiration of the stories her brother brought back.

Gaily decorated walls, and two canopied beds illuminated by a single beeswax candle burning on the table between them. Lehzen with her eyes closed, resting her feet on an ottoman, and a dog asleep on the rug. Melbourne recalled as though it were yesterday the same room with one babe in the cradle, then another, his own stolen moments in this peaceful retreat. If he had a favorite place in the world, inhabited only by goodness and simplicity, it was this nursery that sheltered the children whose very existence was a miracle. _Was it really all so simple then? Were the gods that benign? A new life containing his heart's every desire, in place of the old, the tired, the worn?_ That sense of dubious wonder had never entirely faded.

**

"There you are." Melbourne looked up, although there was no need. He reached behind him, extending a hand. Victoria had undressed; her hair was loose and she wore a dark silk bed robe and slippers.

A misty rain was falling, and the rooftops of the city were obscured by fog. No stars were visible, but somewhere beyond the clouds, he guessed the moon was bright. He sprawled in one of the two wicker armchairs placed on the terrace outside of their apartment. None of the household ventured this far; the space was theirs alone.

"Sit with me a while?" he asked. Victoria laid her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her. The chair he was in was wide and sturdy, ample for two, when one was as small as she.

"I didn't make it in to hear their prayers," she said regretfully, settling herself against his encircling arm. "I wanted to write to the vicar of the parish where those poor men drowned, and another to Lady Innes."

"Liam will tell you all about the Fair in the morning, then. You must pretend to be enthralled."

"'Pretend'? I _will_ be. Am I a very bad mother, that you must do my job for me?"

Melbourne thought about what she had said. _How to answer?_

"No, you are not a bad mother. Is there a law which states what you must do, and what I might be allowed to do on your behalf? If so, I surely violate it often. Perhaps we're a pair of law-breakers, then." He deflected her concern with humor, and hoped that it would suffice.

Even when he was a much younger man, he had found great pleasure in caring for his child. Tutors and resident physicians came and went, Caro desperate to find a cure for their boy's affliction, while he patiently worked with Augustus, small repetitive exercises to unlock his tormented mind. He had tolerated no criticism of Caro – he knew better than most that she loved their son to distraction – and despised the opinion of those who considered the care of his child beneath the dignity of a man.

"Truly? Some say it's unnatural, unwomanly, that I perform my duties as queen and neglect those of a wife and mother."

"Then some can go to the devil, sweetheart. I consider myself the lucky one here, that I am free to indulge myself while you toil. Listening to a blowhard like Williams go on –" he huffed a little laugh and rearranged the silky dark hair caught in her collar.

They talked of the Welsh disaster, a mine flooded and thirty men lost. They spoke of the forecast for a second poor harvest, and of the death of Louis Napoléon Bonaparte in Linovo. It was shop talk, Melbourne reflected, no different than the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker might be discussing at that very moment, somewhere across town.

"And how was the fair?" Victoria asked, resting her cheek against his shoulder so that her breath was warm on his neck. 

"Fair," he responded glibly, making her giggle. It was more than such a poor joke deserved. "The bear is settling in quite nicely."

"Bear?" Victoria repeated, sitting up to look at him uncertainly. "You didn't –"

Melbourne lifted a brow and met her eyes levelly, enjoying her momentary alarm.

"I didn't," he relented. "But if Lily had been with us, I may have had no choice. It wasn't a _big_ bear, you understand, only a juvenile."

"You didn't take him to a bear-baiting, I hope?"

"No such thing, ma'am. This bear rode in a perambulator. He quite clung to your son as though they were long-lost brothers. It took all my skills of persuasion to separate the two."

"What else did you see? Was it all as clean and wholesome as Sir Robert hoped?"

"Sir Robert thinks so. If one overlooks the hashish pipes being passed behind the tents, then I suppose it might do. Let's see, other than the bear and a Red Indian riding a buffalo, and a turban-wearing Hindoo with his tame snake…" Melbourne hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

"Lady Peel told Liam that he is like his father. On the way home, your son asked if I think he is like Albert, and in what way. He asked a great many questions, which I answered as best I could. He remembers him vaguely of course, but scarcely more than that Albert brought him the train set, and those carved wooden horses that Lily cherishes."

"We have to tell him, William. You knew we would someday."

"Someday, yes. When he's old enough to understand, not now. He's barely breeched."

"Rather now than wait until he's grown. Then, he's liable to hate us for the deceit. Especially since those who _do_ know the truth are all around him, and he need only look closely at the painting to see for himself."

Melbourne sighed and stared off into the misty night, as though the answer he sought might be found there.

"He has always had his 'Father', and his papa. To explain further would only confuse him. Our children know nothing but love. Can there be such a thing as too much, or too many people to love them? There was no one deceived or harmed in his making."

"It's still not the truth, William. At least, not the whole truth. If people are going to make silly observations like Lady Julia did – when all the world can see that Liam is the image of you  – then he _will_ be confused. What if – what if we wait to tell him, and then he rejects the truth of his birth?"

Melbourne heard her concern and understood it mattered a great deal to her.  _Only to her?_ he asked himself, searching. Did it really matter whether the children ever understood that he was their progenitor and not merely a loving paternal presence? _Yes, dammit. Selfish, perhaps, but yes. I want to know that_ they _know who I was, when I am no longer with them. And maybe I_ do _want the world to know as well, although I am resigned to that impossibility._

On the other hand – Albert. The earnest, gauche, stern, silly young man who made it all possible. Not through altruistic motives alone – a marriage of convenience had freed him to live and love as his nature dictated. But these children were his only legacy, the only evidence of his existence.

Self-serving, the counter-argument presented itself: George is still in the children's life, if Albert's memory needs a living presence. They called him uncle, as they did Ernst and Fred. 

"Not…now, Victoria. Not yet."

"Then we _must_ have another baby, William. One you can _claim_ , can hold up in the Abbey and proclaim as your own. One that history will know was the child of William Lamb."

"Do you think I will love that baby any better than I love our other two?" His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. Victoria tilted her head, lifted a hand to cup his cheek in her palm.

"No, William, of course not. You have enough love for all. I've never known a more wonderful father. Only…there must be a little Lamb in name, as well as fact."

 _"_ I don't know about that. I have little enough claim to the name myself." But his mood had lightened, and he spoke with humor.   _Why must I make everything so damned complicated?_

Melbourne laid his hand palm-down on her still-flat midriff.

"I have no wish to tempt fate, my little love. I have more happiness than I ever dreamed possible." Victoria drew her legs up and curled herself against him, safe in his arms. He held her as he held the children she had already given him and the one she might someday bear. They sat in comfortable silence, content together, and looked out over the great sleeping city beyond.


	20. Chapter 20

The long meadow contained two neat rows of gaily striped tents, under a clear blue sky. With the old stone walls of Windsor as a backdrop, it all made such a pretty picture she yearned for paper and paints.

They had planned for a hundred and at least twice that number appeared, when one counted the children. A fair number of inhabitants from Windsor village had turned out en masse, more excited by the prospect of an workaday holiday than they were by any mere invitation from the castle which loomed over their homes and shops. Nearly every family had a member employed in building or grounds, so they were less easily awed than the Londoners in their midst.

Parliament had been prorogued at Russell's request. He hoped for time to do the belated work of a new legislative agenda. The Corn Laws were repealed, but arguments still raged. So long as the old battle was refought again and again nothing new could be accomplished. With no speeches to make, Members and ministers had left for country homes to escape the fetid air of late summer in the city. Beyond their empty chambers, the corridors and byways still hummed busily. Clerks and accountants, scribes and secretaries, department heads and middle managers were all needed to keep the government running. It was to these that the Palace extended an invitation, to close those offices which worked on the Queen's behalf for a Windsor garden party.

In a rush of sentimentality, Victoria had suggested a public fête to mark the day of Lily's birth. Another August 6th, in 1843, had been a similarly fine day, and the royal family had been at Windsor then too. Everyone expected her to be deeply affected by the memories of that day, but she remembered little. A lavender gown draped over her eight months' pregnancy, that gown smoking where the bullet ripped through and Liam, his face white where it wasn't painted with her blood. Then nothing, until she awakened in her own bed to searing pain in her newly-flat abdomen and the sight of William watching over her.

The impossibly tiny princess Melbourne had held in his hands was a romping, rollicking three-year-old. She had been cajoled into standing still long enough to greet a fair number of the guests who waited in line to offer felicitations. Lily being Lily, she showed more interest in the children they brought and the gifts those children held out, than she was in acknowledging each new obeisance.

The invitations Victoria's office had issued said plainly _Her Royal Highness can accept no gifts. Those who wish to do honor her, may tender a donation to the British Association for the Relief of Distress in Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland_. Spring Rice, one of Melbourne's oldest friends and an early patron of the Association, was in attendance and Baron Rothschild's office had set up a booth to collect offerings. The bowls were filling nicely with shillings and pound notes, and yet it seemed no one stepped onto the grounds unburdened by some trinket or trifle for the guest of honor.

"We will give those to the London Orphan Asylum," Victoria had murmured during a lull in the receiving line. Melbourne had glanced at her warningly, then looked down at the curly head between them.

 _Not now_ , Victoria understood him to say. She reminded herself not to be annoyed at his indulgence. It was a parent's place to decree and a child's to obey, Victoria firmly believed, and yet…while she would not willingly give in to her daughter's demands, she could deny her husband nothing. And so she only smiled and nodded and made mental note to whisk the bounty away when Lily was otherwise occupied.

Liam stood patiently beside his father, looking longingly at a group of children calling for him to join them. Lily was hopping from one foot to another, swinging from her mother and father's hands. Victoria's heart was warmed at their appearance, if not her daughter's behavior. Her son was a slender boy, with beautiful finely-drawn features that were unmistakably those of his father in that Reynolds painting of the three Lamb brothers. Both children had Melbourne's thick curly hair, Liam's a light sandy brown and Lily's the warmer chestnut of Victoria's infancy. There were those – Melbourne was one – who claimed the little princess was her mother all over, both in temperament and appearance. Victoria could only believe it was because Lily had never entirely outgrown her premature birth. That small stature was the only resemblance she recognized.

Lehzen, with the wisdom of long experience, had guided Victoria in her selection of their costumes. Liam wore a sailor suit, white with blue piping, and Lily a navy-blue frock with the nautical theme carried in broad collar and red trimmings. The darker hue stood a better chance of hiding the inevitable smudges and stains, that were drawn to the little girl like a magnet.

"You may join your cousins," Victoria said abruptly, releasing Lily's hand. "Stay where we can see you."

"Tony and Vicky will mind them." Emily Temple, Lady Palmerston, said. Her grandson by the daughter everyone called Young Em, the Honorable Anthony Ashley-Cooper, was ten, his sister younger by a year. "Ten is old enough to have as much sense as any male ever will. From there it's all downhill." Liam idolized the older boy, and happily skipped along at his heels.

"Come, let's get you out of this sun before you break out in spots." Emily was still an attractive woman with impeccable taste and the Lamb charm of manner. Victoria was never quite relaxed around her sister-in-law, and made a conscious effort to please her.

All she saw of Lily when she turned around, were the ribbons streaming down her back as she ran off with the little girl cousins who were her best friends. Lady Victoria Alexandrina Jocelyn – Victoria wanted to giggle, at the preponderance of _Victorias_ in her husband's family – was four and her sister Lady Alice three. These, and little Lady Mary Ashley-Cooper, were Lily's inseparable companions.

Emily whisked them off to a smaller tent, outfitted as an open-air sitting room. It was populated almost entirely by females hopeful of protecting their complexions. Victoria counted her mother, her aunts and her half-brother's wife, Fred's wife up from Melbourne Hall and Emily's daughters and daughter-in-law. _A fine blending of my relatives and his,_ Victoria noted with satisfaction.

Dowager Queen Adelaide was cooing and clucking over the infant Fanny held at her breast. Despite a carefully draped shawl, it was obvious she was nursing and Victoria felt a faint revulsion. _That_ at least, she would avoid at all costs, if she were able to conceive again. She stopped short and smiled sweetly at Emily.

"William, we must check on the arrangements for _later_ ," Victoria said pointedly. She was admittedly curious about the entertainment they had gone to such lengths to arrange, but she also wanted to steal a few moments alone.

"Are you sure you want to ruin the surprise?" he asked her, leading her out of the tent through a flap in the back wall.

"Silly," she laughed. "The surprise isn't for me, it's for Lily." Only a few feet from the midway's bustle, the back passage was refreshingly quiet. Behind the row of tents, wagons had been neatly parked in a line. Some of them were festive, with the garish ornamentation of professional travelers. Others bore the unmistakably rustic look of the farms on which they had originated.

"You went away during the night," Victoria said in a low voice. "You were gone when I awakened."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to disturb you," Melbourne answered easily. Victoria tilted her head, listening to detect any hint of strain or sadness in his voice. "I couldn't sleep, so I went to check on the children."

"You slept there?" She knew the answer; there were no secrets in a household as large as theirs. Lehzen protected his privacy as fiercely, or nearly so, as she did her mistress's, but chambermaids talk to footmen who talk to…

Melbourne only shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "I may have drifted off."

"You used to do that often, when they were babies. It's why Lehzen won't part with that old chair. She keeps it for you." _Was that just a hint of jealousy in my voice?_ Victoria wondered, shocked at such pettiness. But Lehzen was _hers_ , and it was hard to share such an ancient allegiance.

"The nursery is such a peaceful place. But by and large, I prefer the bed I share with you."

They walked in silence, Victoria's hand tucked into the crook of her husband's elbow.

"Are they much further?" she asked finally, when they'd reached the end of the trailers.

"Not very." Melbourne halted behind the last of the wagons. He lifted her chin, and Victoria looked up at him from under the wide brim of her hat.

"When I watch her, I'm reminded how lucky we are. That day she was born I might have lost both of you." His voice thickened suspiciously. Victoria lifted one gloved hand and blotted the moisture beside his eyes.

"My poor darling!" she murmured. "I had the easiest part of it. I remember very little, and what I do is all confused, thanks to the morphine. But I know you held her against your own chest, skin to skin. You wouldn't let them swaddle her."

"That was only instinct, and selfishness. But Danny Cameron insisted it was as good as any medicine. It's what they do in the poorest regions of the east, for a sickly babe, when no other help is at hand. The Harley Street men didn't much care for his primitive methods." He chuckled, remembering, and Victoria grinned in response.

"It takes far more courage than they could muster to stand their ground against one Cameron, much less two. Turns out he was right. Poking at that frail little body, forcing down noxious remedies, binding her limbs, would have only been an assault on her senses." Melbourne shrugged dismissively, suddenly self-conscious.

"Come along, then. Let's have a look at Lily's surprise."

**

The entertainment provided delighted all who came. After the Bartholomew Parish fair was concluded, tracking down the itinerant performers had been no simple feat. Just out of sight of the main promenade, on a field leading to the Great Park, a ring had been assembled and bleachers hammered together for those commoners who had come to celebrate the birth of the Princess Royale. The family sat under a fringed cloth-of-gold canopy, as close to the performance as they could safely manage.

The juggler rode his great ten-foot unicycle, the fire eater pranced about to a lively tune played by the Life Guards band. Young ladies in daringly short spangled skirts performed acrobatics while atop white horses that Victoria thought looked amazingly like her own Adagio.

A troop of little curly-coated dogs walked on hind legs and turned somersaults over one another in perfect synchronization. Pachyderms lumbered docilely around the ring, serving as movable platforms for the tumblers who leapt from one to another, finally forming a pyramid five men high.

Victoria was so charmed by the animal acts that she forgot her dignity entirely. She oohed and ahhed in time with the children, clapping vigorously at each new arrival. Finally – and this, she knew, was the very special surprise that Melbourne had arranged for his daughter – two monkeys came out from behind an improvised drapery. They were chattering together, seemingly unconcerned by the crowd, and each of them pushed a pram. One held an infant of their own species, an adorable wide-eyed creature, and the second held a black bear cub in bonnet and frilly gown.

**

_Do we dare? The princess has withdrawn her consent._

_Then it's good to be queen. I outrank her. William…stop that – no, don't stop. You can't say one thing and do another._

_I can and I will. Men are contrary creatures. I am in thrall to two females, and one of them might want a baby but the other has decided it must be a bear._

_Oh yes…oh, my darling…I love when you do that…_

_Then I must do it more often, and this…and this…_

"You know, you can never top this birthday. She will remember it the rest of her life."

"If she is satisfied, then I am. Are you?" Victoria understood his meaning from the sudden change in tone. A gentle breeze blew over her, bringing with it the mingled odors of spent fireworks, damp night air and lingering _eau de fairgrounds_. She had no desire to move, every limb felt boneless, but she was just chilled enough to want a light cover. Victoria lay blissfully naked, legs wantonly spread, and just then felt too entirely tranquil to raise a finger. As if reading her mind – _no ifs; of course he does!_ – Melbourne detached himself from her embrace and rose.

Victoria groaned in protest at the loss of his warmth, but smiled contentedly when he returned with a gossamer shawl.

"You are the most beautiful sight…" she murmured. Long legs, taut buttocks and that delicious little rounded tummy just perfect for pillowing her head. His gray hair long and curling around his face – she complained each time he threatened to send for the barber – and that dear, handsome face more infinitely familiar than the one in her looking glass.

"I would say the same, ma'am…and mean it more sincerely."

Melbourne sat back down and lifted his feet, stretching out beside her once more. Victoria rolled onto her side and threw her own leg across his thighs. Her fingers found the thatch of hair on his chest and twirled the strands, following its path down to his navel.

"I don't want to sleep yet," Victoria said, the words nearly smothered by her yawn. "This day has been so perfect I don't want it to end."

"Your daughter said nearly the same thing when I sent Lehzen to her own apartment. The poor woman was dead on her feet, and four little girls giggling and whispering in bed until all hours was more than she deserved."

"They are not unattended?" Victoria left the management of the nursery to Melbourne and Lehzen between them, but it was her cardinal rule that the children must never be entirely unguarded. Her own mother missed no opportunity to remind her how she had chafed under the same restriction.

"Of course not. Two under-nurses, and Fanny's governess. The girl can't be a day over twenty-one but I suppose one of the advantages of youth is boundless energy."

They talked in low voices, a nod to the intimacy of the bedchamber. Melbourne, amused, described once again Lily's infatuation with the cub. Fanny's nursing infant held no more appeal, and she taunted her cousins mercilessly with the comparison.

"Does she expect to see it in a cradle by her bedside?" Victoria wondered, imagining the inevitable disappointment.

"I am not that indulgent, have no fear. Bears have a habit of growing."

He made Victoria giggle, describing ridiculous scenes involving a bear taking up residence in Buckingham Palace. Then, all at once, he rolled onto his own side and wrapped his arms around her tightly. Victoria settled happily into the cocoon of her husband's embrace.

"You make me very happy, Mrs. Melbourne," he said. "You give me all I've ever wanted or imagined." Victoria felt his lips press against the top of her head, and then a sudden _smack_ on her behind. "Cover yourself, you hussy," he teased. "Else you will shock your poor maid in the morning."

Victoria huffed pretended offense, but dutifully sat up and pulled on her lawn night dress.

"Skerrett bathes me. I doubt the sight of _my_ bare skin would shock her. _This,_ on the other hand, might well give her vapors." She gathered him into her hands, stroking the silky skin with her thumb. "And what I hold is only for me. _Mine_ , do you understand?"

Victoria kissed that part of him, and then his lips. She waited until he had put on his own nightshirt, then settled herself beside him.

"Do you think we made a baby tonight?" Victoria asked sleepily, already planning to stay abed in the morning.


	21. Chapter 21

_Melbourne Hall, Derbyshire, UK_

A lowering sky foretold of rain to come. A crack of thunder pulled Melbourne out of the pages of Epidemiae and back to the present. When his gaze fell to the work before him, a half-blank page and discarded pen seemed to look back reproachfully.

He stood, stretched and rubbed his hand over an unshaven chin. Five days at Melbourne Hall with his brother and all the rude habits of boyhood returned as if days and not decades had passed. Adine had remained behind so not even her mild oversight might inhibit bachelor carelessness. Cold coffee stained her delicate porcelain cups, crumbs were strewn over the table upon which they took haphazard meals while poring over the ledgers.

The Hall had been reclaimed after decades of occupation by a series of tenants. Melbourne had no particular sentimental attachment to the place whilst Fred, after a career in Foreign Service, had no home to which he could bring his young wife. Victoria had elevated Frederick Lamb to the peerage in '39, creating him Baron Beauvale, but the title came with no income and only the remains of a Carthusian monastery and uninhabitable house. While Melbourne Hall was entailed, Lord Melbourne had gladly surrendered physical possession to his younger brother. He subsidized the rents from adjacent acreage with a substantial annual sum, one more drain on his own meager income.

Another loud crash and the heavens opened up. Melbourne stood in the window and watched as a solid wall of water poured down, obscuring his view of the iron gates beyond.

Melbourne Hall and estate were part of the little market town named Melbourne – or rather, the town took its name from the Hall. Melbourne himself had spent little time in residence, either as a child – when both his social-climbing parents preferred Brocket Hall for its proximity to London – or an adult. A succession of well-to-do tenants had paid handsomely over the years, for the privilege of living in the seat of a member of the nobility, until the property showed inevitable signs of neglect. In the years since taking up residency, Fred and his young wife had wrought substantial improvements, subsidized by the annual stipend Melbourne sent, to cover what the estate income could not.

The heavy front door flung open with such force it slammed against the wall, blown there by a gust of wind. The butler stepped smartly back, in time to narrowly avoid being run over by the master of the house.

Frederick Lamb, at sixty-four, was a tall man, slightly leaner in build than his elder brother, with a long narrow face that was considered every bit as handsome as the older Lamb. They both had a good head of hair, still mostly dark with distinguished silver threads. The only difference a casual observer might note was the lines etched into Fred's features, hallmark of constant pain from gout that rarely relented.

Mrs. Talbot, the housekeeper Adine had entrusted with daily management of the household, was less reticent than her husband. She rushed after Fred with a bundle of rags, scolding as she mopped up the water he left on her shining hardwood floor.

"The papers, old fellow," Fred said, shaking his head as vigorously as a Labrador to rid it of the rainwater streaming into his eyes.

He would have made for the library, if he had been allowed. Mrs. Talbot, as Lady Lamb's proxy, would not have it. She harangued him until he yielded, and trudged obediently up the staircase to shed his wet clothing.

Melbourne only chuckled at his sister-in-law's henpecking _in absentia_ and took up the oilcloth-wrapped bundle of newspapers.

"If Your Lordship will permit one of the housemaids to tidy the library, I will fix a tea tray for you and His Lordship," Mrs. Talbot said, her martial expression daring Melbourne to refuse.

**

He would have left on the instant, had there been any hope of catching the train in Derby. Even without the deluge rendering travel unwise if not impossible, the last of the East Midlands to London run departed at a quarter past four o'clock.

By the time Fred reappeared in clean, dry shirt and trousers, _sans_ neckcloth in the casual country mode, Melbourne was in a foul temper and grateful for the opportunity to vent. He was several minutes into his diatribe when he noticed his brother's befuddled expression.

"No, I didn't read the damn things. I picked them up at the post office in Melbourne and headed straight back."

"Johnny Russell, damned coward that he is, has coerced the queen into extending Parliamentary recess. Now _she_ has critics from both sides of the aisle bearing down, blaming _her_ for thwarting the democratic process."

Melbourne slapped the Manchester Guardian against his palm, _thwack, thwack_.

"And the Times, in its careful fashion, likewise lays responsibility for delay squarely on Victoria. How _cautious_ of them, to avoid offending either side by blaming the Queen."

Melbourne waited impatiently for Fred to scan the headlines in each of the newspapers he had delivered.

"So she has decreed that Parliament will not resume until late September. And that, of course, deprives each side of the chance to filibuster at length on what is a _fait accompli_."

"Exactly. It suits Russell's purpose, because he inherited Peel's mess. The Corn Laws are repealed but no one is happy, and so long as arguments go on he will have to chance to move things forward. But he can't appear the coward that he is, so he will lay the blame on Victoria. I must go back and settle this."

"What can you do? What can _she_ do? She is, let's face it, a titular monarch. It is the system of government we British are so proud of when things go right, a constitutional monarchy. Surely everyone who matters understands that she has no choice but ratify what the head of the party in power decides?"

"Who is 'everyone who matters', Fred? The rabble in the streets, the socialists who meet in coffee houses to decry the monarchy? The fools who believe that free trade will magically put food on the table for those who cannot afford it? Cheap grain will drive our farmers out of business. Yes, the great landowners might feel a mild sting but in this day and age, investments are diversified and few derive more than a pittance in rent. No, it's the small freeholders and tenant farmers who will see their grain rot in silos when the markets are flooded with cheap foreign imports."

Melbourne's voice cracked, always a sure sign of his own excessive emotion.

"I don't give a _damn_ about any of that. I no longer have a horse in the race. But I will neither leave her to face this rubbish alone, or to be used by Johnny Russell for his own political cover."

Fred was wise enough to let him go on until he'd wound down and expended the worst of his outrage. Neither man attended to the silent scurrying movements of a housemaid who gathered together glassware and crockery and nimbly polished the tabletop to a rich sheen. Fred called for fresh glasses and poured a hearty portion of fortified French brandy for each of them.

Midway through the evening Melbourne belatedly acknowledged Fred's able performance of a service only one's brother could provide. He had spoken intemperately, as he would not to anyone else.

"You understand, I only express my own feelings, and only to you. I do not rule the Queen or tell her how to conduct her affairs, and it is she who must decide whether to proceed as her Prime Minister wishes."

Fred waved a hand dismissively, and poured again for them both.

"You don't have to tell me, William. Never has a sovereign been better served, than she is by you, or with more care for the dignity of her position. Henry said as much once."

"Henry? Our Henry? Palmerston?" Melbourne's cocked eyebrow and skeptical grimace communicated disbelief.

"Yes, our Henry. Em's Henry. Wellesley once said something similar, that as a minister and mentor no man could have served more ably or with less ambition than you. Vent all you want as a husband, then we'll work out what's best done and how – whether – you will advise her."

They sat up late, flinging open the mullioned windows to freshen stale, damp air in the library.  Neither showed any inclination to retire until the clock hands showed three o'clock in the morning.

"So I will get the facts of it from Victoria, and see how she feels about retracting that consent. If she's resolved to let Russell have his way, he has to own the decision and put out a statement that _at his request, the queen extended the recess._ And if she wants to go with the majority of those clamoring for a speedy end, then one or the other side, or both, must petition her to do so. That, at least, will be my advice. She knows she can take or leave it, and I will defend to the death her right to do so."

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, Melbourne disembarked from the train which had carried him south. He had traveled faster than any courier might have sent message, so he found a hackney cab at King's Cross railway station. Convincing the skeptical cabbie to deliver him to Buckingham Palace took all the persuasiveness he could muster.

Dusk at the end of summer came more quickly than during the endless days of June. It was scarcely nine o'clock when they approached the side entrance, circling around the massive scaffolding which covered the front of the Palace.

Melbourne had anticipated the need to soothe Victoria's overwrought nerves, before any substantive discussion might take place. He had even considered the possibility that she would be closeted with some combination of ministers and politicians, lobbying for her to come down on one side or another.

What he had not foreseen was to find his wife pirouetting on a stool in her corset and drawers, before an audience that consisted of most of the ladies-in-waiting and more than a few young maids-of-honor.

Melbourne had outpaced the footman who would have announced him, so that he was halfway across the drawing room by the time he heard _His Grace the Duke of Melbourne_ from the doorway.

Heedless of the impropriety, Victoria jumped down from her elevated platform and went to him, so that he found himself embracing his wife _en_ _déshabillé_ while a dozen pair of interested eyes watched. There was only one whose disapproval he cared for, and the Duchess of Kent only regarded him with a tolerant expression. His sister-in-law's look of amusement contained a hint of wistfulness that he recognized. She and Fred were a love match, despite the forty years' difference in their ages that mirrored his own and Victoria's.

Melbourne gently removed Victoria's arms from his waist and, despite the concern which had fueled his speedy return, could not resist smiling back at her upturned face.

"Madame La Stäel has brought the gowns I ordered for our trip, Lord M. She is pinning me into them to mark the final alterations. You will join us? I don't want to lose you again, but I can't postpone my fitting."

Melbourne saw, displayed on every available surface, day dresses and ballgowns and innumerable in-between garments in every color of the rainbow.

"You may tell me if you think any is especially heinous. Otherwise….ssshh." Victoria laid a finger on his lips playfully. He held the hand she extended so that she could climb back onto her stool and took the seat vacated by one of the young misses who served in her household.

It was, he thought, the perfect – if unplanned – antidote to his prior agitation. Something about the gay, giddy atmosphere soothed his jangled nerves. It always pleased him immeasurably to see Victoria shed the constraints of her position and become a laughing, careless girl. There was a reassuring camaraderie amongst her female attendants, even those for whom she usually felt a barely concealed mistrust.

"Oh, that one, ma'am, for your arrival in Rome…"

"You'll need the darker suits for the train and then –"

"The seafoam green for your first ball – oh, of course there will be balls, and receptions and fêtes. You will be 'incognito' but that doesn't mean the Venetian nobility will not vie to honor you…"

"They say that –"

Melbourne drowsed pleasantly, to the lullaby sounds of feminine chatter. Dresses were presented one by one, and pulled over Victoria's head and fastened into place so she could turn and reach and bend while the dressmaker's assistants put pins in place. When it was done she was wrapped in a silk négligé and sat beside him, serving him small cakes from a silver tray pouring champagne with her own hand.

They stood holding hands to say goodnight to her ladies. Adine was the last to leave.

"Did you and Fred complete your business?" she asked hopefully. "Does he want me to return home?"

"We did, and he does, if it please you. You have scarcely two weeks before we depart for the Continent."

Victoria's mouth opened as though she might speak, but she closed it again and remained silent. Melbourne kissed his sister-in-law and Victoria did likewise.

When the door to their apartment had closed, Victoria stood on tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, William, I have so much to tell you. We can't leave as we planned – and perhaps, not at all."

"Ah but at the risk of disagreeing, we not only _can_ , we _will_."

The familiar comfort of _home_ sapped any lingering zeal to tackle the outrageous conduct of Johnny Russell's government. He folded her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked with her to the inner chamber.

Baines had seemingly shed the inevitable fatigue of travel, for his cases were empty, his shaving kit and brushes laid out in their customary place and his dressing gown and slippers waiting. The valet, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Skerrett is not here," Victoria said blankly, blinking with surprise.

"You can do without her tonight," Melbourne murmured, his hands already bus loosening her corset. He suppressed a fond smile when she flailed her arms, futilely attempting to don a nightdress. "Let me."

She was so much shorter in her bare feet that he easily removed the pins from her hair while she stood.

"Mmmm, nice," Victoria cooed, when he began brushing the kinks from her brown hair, spreading it over her shoulders like a cape.

"If we might defer until the morning, I _would_ like to hear what prompted the extension of that recess. I suppose you know that the papers are being none too charitable in their assignment of blame."

"You once said you never read the papers, Lord M," Victoria reminded archly.

"I say a lot of quite foolish things not meant to be taken literally, ma'am," he retorted, lifting her long hair to get at the underside.

"All right then," she said, showing him a small twisted grin that was surprisingly cynical on one so young. "But what could I do except agree? I have no power to refuse."

"I'll give you my thoughts, for what they're worth, and you can decide how to proceed. It's not a question of what to _do_ , because of course you're correct in saying you lack the power to refuse, but more of what's said, and how it's said. If Russell wants to antagonize his own party and the Tories, then he's within his rights to do so. But not to let you take the blame. And, if he's determined to take ownership of the extended recess, then he will open Parliament without your presence. You will appoint a Regent during our travel; that Regent can give the Queen's Speech on your behalf."

"'Regent'? But Mama is to act as Regent and guardian of the children in our absence."

"Precisely."

Melbourne and Victoria had long attempted to observe an unspoken rule which reserved talk of politics and governance for daylight hours. In this instance, he decided, his only concern was for her and the reputation of the Crown, and she had already opened the topic for discussion.

He settled himself into the armchair in her dressing room and loosened his cravat, and Victoria sat on an ottoman. Melbourne launched into a more mannered explanation of the requirement that must be laid on the Prime Minister. Either own it or allow the opposition to petition the queen for relief, but under no circumstances would the Crown accept responsibility for a decision that was not hers to make.

 "Will you talk to him, William?" Victoria asked shyly. She did not readily relinquish her authority and he did not seek to share it.

"If you wish, ma'am, I will go see him on the morrow and lay it out before him. I think if I present it the right way – as an early means of asserting his own supremacy – he will bite. If not – well, there's always Palmerston, who has no problem I've ever seen in sticking his neck out whether or not a thing is popular. Grey is useless in this matter." He wanted to add _or any other matter_ but refrained. It was not politic to disparage Russell's current Home Secretary, when Johnny had served his own government in that same role.

"Must you see him tomorrow? Then will you take Liam with you into the city? He has his heart set on a balloon ascension taking place in Hyde Park at noon and when he knows you came back early he –"

"Of course I will take our son to see the balloon. I'll send a message to Russell to meet me at Brooks. Let him stew over it for a few hours. His nerves will be on edge and if I'm lucky, he will already be on the defensive when I attach my invitation to that copy of the Register."

Victoria was all wide-eyed attention, but Melbourne could not miss the way in which she allowed the neckline of her virginal white nightdress to slip off one shoulder. He grinned and shucked off his coat.

"I'll join you shortly, ma'am. I am not accustomed to doing without my valet. Do you think it's time we suggest they marry?"

Victoria's mouth popped open in shock. "'Marry'? Who?"

"Baines and your dresser. I've found the stratagems they employ quite amusing, and it's a shame to spoil the deception. But perhaps I should not deprive him of the pleasures I am free to enjoy. Although illicit assignations have their own appeal…"

Melbourne pulled her roughly into his arms and cupped both hands around her pert backside.

"Get thee to bed, Mrs. Melbourne," he growled, squeezing while she giggled. "I've been absent a week and I mean to claim my conjugal rights."

 


	22. Chapter 22

When Melbourne finally returned, Victoria was still at her desk, still bent over a sheet of foolscap, the end of her fountain pen _tap tap_ against her lower lip. For all intends and purposes, he thought, she might have not moved in the past seven hours.  The children – even Lily – became abruptly subdued, the high spirits of their outing suddenly quenched in the presence of their mother. He cleared his throat, and finally she looked up from her work.

A distracted smile was the best she could manage, and Melbourne saw the strain of fatigue in her eyes.

"Come, come – what's this? Surely you have clerks who can write for you?" He knew better, of course, but hoped he could at least tease out a smile for the children's sake.

"You know there are matters we cannot entrust to clerks," Victoria admonished. Melbourne wondered if she used the royal pronoun, or meant to include him in her reference.

"Then I must help you. Allow these scamps to greet you and listen to them talk of their day. Then let me assist you in whatever remains to be done."

Their trip loomed only two weeks hence, and Victoria was determined to see as many outstanding issues brought to a successful conclusion as possible before then.

"Read this," she said, pushing forward the letter she had been writing. "And tell me what you think."

Melbourne made no move to take it. He only met her gaze and then looked down pointedly at the two children at his side.

Victoria sighed deeply, then seemed to physically shake off the tension and refocus.

"Come, then," she said brightly, extending both arms. "Do tell me about the adventures you had with Papa today."

Victoria had the weight of the world on those narrow shoulders, and there was little he could to do share a burden which was by right hers alone. If he wished that she was a warmer, more naturally demonstrative parent – well, she lavished him with affection and  remained what was a dutiful kindness and reflected tenderness towards her son and daughter. _Why must it required that the female parent be naturally demonstrative, when it is considered normal for a father to be remote? In our case the reverse is true, and I don't consider myself less a man for it, so surely she is not less womanly._

If they did not climb on her as readily as they did him, if they didn't as carelessly plant sloppy smacking kisses, pat her face with grubby hands as they did his, if even Lily was on her best behavior during the hour she devoted to them each day, neither did they cringe avoid their mother.

As though to rebuke his concern, Victoria's light girlish laughter rang out, music to his ears. Lily was in the process of a demonstration intended to mime the balloon's girth and speed of ascension. She ended up tumbling onto her backside, arms still above her head, cheeks bulged out and skirts up around her ears so only her frilled pantaloons remained in view.

"Oh, sweetheart, what would Lehzen say?" Victoria clucked, bending to help the little girl rise,  straightening. "Now, Liam, what can you add?"

While the boy answered thoughtfully, looking to his mother for permission before executing an inexpert sketch, Melbourne trimmed the candle and lit the gas lamps affixed to the wall. In late August they would have still had full daylight, except the skies had darkened prematurely. Thunder and lightning presaged a rainstorm to come.

His gaze fell on the letter she'd been writing. Addressed to John Russell, its tone was if not curt, then definitely firm and leaving no room to doubt her intentions.

_"…The Queen has received a draft to Mr. Bulwer from Lord Palmerston. The perusal of it has raised some apprehensions in the Queen's mind, which she stated to Lord Palmerston she would communicate to Lord John Russell._

_The draft lays down a general policy, which the Queen is afraid may ultimately turn out very dangerous. England undertakes to interfere in the internal affairs of Spain and to promote the development of the present constitutional government in Spain in a more democratic…This must bring England and France to quarrels, of which we can hardly foresee the consequences…_

_The natural consequence of this is that Don Enrique would appear as the desirable candidate for the Queen of Spain's hand, and Lord Palmerston, from his urging Don Enrique, stamps him 'an English candidate'…."_

"I just saw Henry a few hours ago," Melbourne said mildly, laying the letter down. "He said nothing about this. Emily asked once again why they were not accompanying us. I've explained ad nauseum that taking the Foreign Secretary on our private visit to the continent would send the wrong message. He's quite put out that Fred and Adine are traveling instead."

"He regrets the chance to meddle first-hand," Victoria sniffed. "How I wish the subject of the Spanish marriage might be put to rest. There is enough else to occupy his mind, if he were to look farther east."

"There you do him an injustice, ma'am." Melbourne made sure she saw his smirk and heard the sarcasm in his voice. "Henry is quite capable of stirring more than one pot at a time."

Victoria's lips tightened into a grin, almost a smirk, over the curly heads of her children. Lily, not content to wait until her brother finished speaking, screwed up her face in a frown of concentration.

"Papa said _fucking_ to the man and pounded his fist." Lily grew radiant at the effect of her announcement. "' _Fucking'_ is what Billy said when –"

"Yes, my little love," Melbourne said hurriedly, hoping to forestall further sensationalism. Once Lily took it into her head that something – in this case, a naughty word – would elicit attention, she would be relentless in its deployment. "And did you tell Mama that we paid a visit to the Zoo and saw a newborn tiger cub?"

The gambit worked, and his daughter segued into a lavish description of the small creature. Not a bear cub, but fair substitute.

_"At your request, you damn fool,"_ he had roared, ambushing Lord John Russell in the anteroom of Brooks and force-marching him into a deserted reading alcove. The children had been left with a grandfatherly concierge, who had promised to let them sample the night's offerings from a new pastry chef. _"Had she refused it would be said that she considered herself above the Constitution, and if you force her to acknowledge she is powerless to refuse you will only gratify those who claim the sovereign is a useless figurehead. So own the fucking thing, acknowledge that you erred, and ask her to rescind the extension."_

_"Fix it,"_ he demanded, pounding his fist on the wall just above the diminutive minister's head. _. "Give it out that the queen has persuaded you to open the new session on schedule, in response to the need for swift action to deal with the second bad harvest. And then make a backroom deal to give away something – some port duty, a minor tariff on the opium pouring in from Hong Kong. Tell the repealers that they got their way and now have to give a little in return, tell the protectionists that our own farmers will receive subsidies. Make each faction think you secretly sympathize with them."_

Melbourne had a lifelong aversion to conflict and any display of strong emotion. But likewise he harbored, safely buried under a veneer of agreeability and nonchalance, a fiery temper which only rarely emerged. On those rare occasions he had unleashed that anger, he was later horrified at his own loss of control.

Much of politics and governance was unavoidable, from the Crown perspective. A King or Queen Regnant in their constitutional monarchy reigned, rather than ruled, and had no independent authority to compel. King William, Victoria's uncle and predecessor, had made no secret of his Tory leanings and even dismissed Melbourne's government, despite the lack of authority to do so. The entire concept of a monarchy in the United Kingdom was no more than an illusory construct, one which would not bear weight if leaned upon. And therein lay the source of Melbourne's outrage, that radical Johnny Russell was too weak to rein in his own Parliament and too cowardly to dismiss them outright. Instead he allowed the wrath of the people to land squarely on the Queen, forcing her to take full blame for his craven extension of recess.

Even so, Melbourne consoled himself, the angry outburst he showed Russell had been a carefully curated display. He could no more _compel_ than Victoria could, but he could damn well intimidate the little worm into manning up and taking responsibility.

"I wish I had addressed this when Lord John was here, but he seemed to be in a great hurry. He's going to announce that it was at his request I extended the Parliamentary recess, and that he's now reached an accord with the Opposition and will request me to call them back on the 8th of September."

Melbourne did not permit his relief to show. If she asked, he would not prevaricate, but until she did, let her believe Johnny came to his senses and grew a set unaided.

"Come, then," Victoria said, standing and struggling to lift Lily. At three, elfin in form, small for her age, the child still made an armful for her petite mother. "We do have to work tomorrow, Lord M. Since it's now certain we're leaving on schedule, there is much to be done first."

Melbourne easily lifted their daughter from her mother's arms, smiling down at Liam, who offered his arm manfully. Victoria laughed and laid her hand on her son, stretching the other around Melbourne's back. She only briefly caressed him, laying her palm flat, but appeared to draw strength from the contact.

They strolled at a leisurely pace down the corridor which led to the private wing of the palace. When Lily kicked her heels to get down, Melbourne took one of her hands and Victoria the other. When the children were safely returned to the nursery, where their governess waited for her darlings, Melbourne replaced the chubby little hand he had gripped with another, softer one.

"And how, pray tell, did _fucking_ become a topic of conversation today?" Victoria murmured, only a twitch at the corner of her mouth hinting at the humor behind her question. _You learned that from me, you little minx,_ Melbourne wanted to chortle. He had, by necessity of long years in the House, learned to mask his own tendency to jest at inopportune moments. Only that little twitch gave him away when he tried to look stern, or so Victoria had told him many times.

"I assure you, not as a verb," he responded, squeezing her hand. "Rather, shall we say, as a point of emphasis in political discourse?"

Large containers were full to overflowing with flowers in every shade of purple. Their fresh outdoor scent filled the drawing room air, dispelling the odor of damp plaster and a vague, more unpleasant smell that rose, some said, from the poorly designed sewer system under Buckingham Palace.

"From Brocket Hall," the Duchess of Kent trilled. She turned her cheek so her son-in-law could dutifully peck the fair powdered skin. Melbourne's chief horticulturist was well worth his exorbitant salary, and kept the conservatory producing flowers and exotic fruits year-round.

"Japanese anemones, Verbena bonariensis and Asters," Melbourne said, critically examining the blooms. The outdoor gardens would be lovely through the end of September at least; unfortunately, they would miss weekends at their country retreat until only leaves remained to lend their color. Not even that, if autumn of 1846 was as cold and rainy as 1845 had been.

"Ma'am, you look lovely tonight," Melbourne crooned. The Duchess blushed like a girl at the flattery. "Since you show to advantage and behold us in all our dirt, will you do duty as hostess while Victoria and I change for dinner?"

Francis Russell, 7th Duke of Bedford, would dine with them that evening. He would bring Anna, Lady Bedford, who had served as a Lady of the Bedchamber until 1841. By necessity, young Lady Dalmeny, Lady Anna's beautiful niece, would be at present as well. Victoria liked the aunt a great deal, even considered her a friend, but had no fondness for the younger Stanhope. The captain of _HMY Victoria and William_ , christened months before the prince's death and renamed after her remarriage, would be in attendance, as would Sir William Symonds, the steam yacht's designer. Lord Auckland had been invited as First Lord of the Admiralty. He would bring his sister Emily, and had been specially requested to bring along the Under-Secretary who would dispatch a frigate to escort the royal yacht.

"And Billy?" Victoria asked, as soon as her mother had departed. She lifted one foot, balancing on the other, and untied the lace on her shoe.

"And Billy," Melbourne agreed, steadying her while she worked on the other slipper.

There would be others in their retinue, of course – no 'private trip', no matter how low-key and unofficial, could be accomplished without necessary traveling companions. But the men invited to dine with them tonight would, while the ladies retired to the drawing room, go over the final logistical arrangements for transporting the queen to European shores.

"Was it all very difficult to manage?" Victoria asked, holding her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn.

"Not really." Melbourne shrugged. "We're avoiding the capitals. Dover to Calais, of course, but not Paris. We'll overnight in Reims, and then take the train to Geneva." He hesitated, then pushed on.

"Susan offered hospitality, but even her fine new home can't accommodate a party our size. She did ask if you and I would like to stay with her family, and leave our companions in the hôtel of your consul, Mr. Mackenzie. Susan writes that his office and residence at 5 Rue de Rhône is not far from her own home. Aimée naturally joins in his wife's invitation."

When Victoria remained silent, he counted two beats and then continued. "She understood entirely when I declined. We will dine with them, if you agree, on our second night in Geneva. We will have traveled hard, and won't want to leave the privacy of the hôtel our first night in Geneva."

"That'll be fine. I'm sure you've arranged it all perfectly, William. Don't look so guilty, or I will suspect you of something."

"I anticipate we'll be overrun by Crosbies, during our short stay. Susan also writes that Lilly has been besieging her daily for news of our visit, and where she goes her sisters will follow."

"I will receive her mother gladly, William, but please, must we entertain your first Lilly?" Victoria's tone was suddenly waspish, and when she gave him a sidelong glance Melbourne fancied he saw sparks fly from her eyes.

"A fluke, no more, sweetheart. Don't tease."

"At least I will hope she has outgrown the need for discipline, your Lady Brandon's Lilly." Victoria spun around quickly, overbalanced when one stocking-clad foot slid on the varnished floor, and careened into Melbourne. He caught her neatly and sat down hard, bringing her with him.

"There, that's better," he said, holding her about the waist to prevent her rising from the chair where they landed.

"The whole lot of them can go straight to the devil," he growled, lips against her temple. "Or not, as you prefer. I care nothing if we see the daughters – I doubt I could tell them apart now, for I couldn't when they were girls. And if they've run to plumpness like their mother, I doubt we could fit them all at table in a modest house."

When he heard Victoria's giggle, he knew the brief squall had passed.

"Can we invite Lady Brandon when we dine with Susan and Aimée?" she asked stiffly.

"That is what I had hoped you would say. It's already done. Then – if we can concentrate on _our_ holiday, we will not visit Paris, or Brussels, for that matter. And we are only traveling along the border with Spain. We will go from Geneva by way of the fine new low road to Milan, and thence to Venice. Completely apolitical, and if you can endure an evening with Lady Brandon – who is, you  will recall, a jolly, unassuming sort of woman – and my former ward, the rest of the time will be ours."

"Kiss me and then release me," Victoria demanded. "We must change for dinner. They will all be waiting."

"One of the prerogatives of your station, ma'am. Let them wait." Victoria, despite her words, was lightly tracing his brows with her fingertips. She explored his face as though she were sightless, stroking eye-sockets, cheekbones and jaw with a feather-light touch.

"I love your face," she said absently, as though stating an incidental fact. "And your wonderful hair, especially when it gets long like it is now."

Melbourne felt her fingers tug at one lock, then another, first gently and then with more firmness. She always insisted he delay the inevitable summons to his barber, preferring his hair long enough so that the unruly curls framed his face and coiled in his neck.

"Oh! That reminds me – well, not really but – I have asked one of the physicians to examine Deckle. He has a growth on one leg that is giving him trouble, and I don't like leaving him without knowing it's resolved."

"The menagerie will be well-treated, my darling. It's well known that your animals are the way to your heart."

"You managed to find the way to my heart quite well on your own," Victoria laughed, tugging at the curl wound around her finger so that he pretended to yelp.

"Nonsense! You forget that Dash and Eos were my first allies, in earning your trust."

They continued to banter while valet and lady's maid worked around them. Victoria had her long hair brushed and repinned while Melbourne shaved, and then she consented to remove herself to her own dressing room to be gowned for the evening.

When he reclaimed her, Melbourne took a moment to admire the picture she made, in a gown that exposed alabaster shoulders and a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage.

"You are looking very well," he said, sweeping a low bow as a courtier might. As he himself had, once upon an earlier time.

"We don't bring business to bed, but – I have letters.  From Uncle Leopold and Stockmar, and from Aunt Louise-Marie. All protesting their love and devotion, and concern for my welfare."

"All of them seeking to influence you in the direction of Leo," Melbourne said drily. "It will be a relief when that blasted girl picks a husband. You didn't seem to have much difficulty in knowing your own mind, when it came to marriage."

"And look how that turned out. I married Albert, just like Leopold wanted."

"He had my help in that regard, and I bitterly regret my part in it, as you know."

"Never mind that. We ended up together. But I agree, if Isabella had any spirit she would put her foot down and make her choice, or none at all."

"They'll marry her to her cousin, who shares Albert's inclinations. But I beg you, can we read over your family's importunate correspondence tomorrow? When I take my wife to bed, I prefer there are only two of us."

Victoria took his hand and pressed her lips to his knuckles, one at a time. Such inconsequential shows of affection had the power to overwhelm Melbourne with gratitude. He impatiently blinked hard to dispel the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, and cleared his throat to relieve a sudden constriction.

"The whole pack of them can go to the devil, right alongside anyone else who upsets your peace of mind. Why don't we divorce Henry from Emily and let _him_ marry the little Spanish queen? He's thought of little else besides her marriage for the past five years."

A tap at the door, a tactful pause and then a page entered.

"Your Majesty, Your Grace – the Duchess of Kent would like you to know that your guests have assembled and await your pleasure."

"My _pleasure_ ," Melbourne bent so that his whisper tickled Victoria's ear. "Is to send for a tray, dine _al fresco_ on the terrace and then watch the rain fall with only you at my side."

"That would be my wish too, Lord M. But the sooner we approve the final itinerary, the sooner we can leave it all behind. _Tomorrow_ I will show you the letters from my family, and we can go over the other business which requires my attention. Then I will tell Mama that she will give the Queen's Speech to Parliament, and be Regent in my absence. She's wanted that all of my life, so now she will have her time to shine."

"As you wish, Mrs. Melbourne. I suppose that terrace, and the rain, will be there at evening's end. I have a yen to dance with my wife in the moonlight, with no one to watch me."

_Brocket Hall Flowers (Circa 2019)_


	23. Chapter 23

 

_Dover to Calais Aboard HMY Victoria and William_

**9 September 1846**

We arrived in Dover at a half-past three in the morning. Despite the hour, porters swarmed our carriages intent on unloading our luggage. Until the extension of the South Eastern Railway line in '46, we would have been many uncomfortable hours on the road, traveling by horse-and-carriage. Instead, we had been whisked in comfort from the London station to Dover at dizzying speed.

One large ship sat dockside besides our own. I read the name _Chermin-de-Fer_ on its side, and knew it for the steam packet launched by my Uncle King Leopold's Belgian government. I felt a momentary pang, gone as soon as I recognized it, for what he was sure to call subterfuge and a lack of filial piety. But this time and this trip were ours and ours alone and I would not permit either State business or the claims of family to interfere.

We were conducted to the hotel opposite – the Royal George – the landing stage from where the mail-coaches left for London. In the hotel we found an enormous buffet laden with veritable mountains of food; roast beef, hot and cold roast chicken, turkey stuffed with truffles, York ham and pies of every description. Magnificent cut glass decanters and glittering bottles scintillated among the plates of food. All this was rather tempting, but William reached only for a leg of chicken and a glass of sherry.

My poor darling, I can write here, had previously confided a great horror of travel by sea. He imagines that I do not attend, or perhaps dismiss his confidences. If only he knew, I have never lost the habit of recording his least utterance. He is the most important person in the world to me, and although every word which has ever crossed his lips is etched into my mind and heart, they reside in the pages of my journals as well.

Horrible storms raged the night he returned from Dublin to attend his dying wife. Not to discount the distempers suffered by those on board, it is possible that the grief which followed has been conflated in memory with the trials of the sea voyage. Whatever the case, my darling's misadventures during that ill-fated return from France several years past only compounded his angst. He does not think I know, and I will not tell him otherwise. But I will tend him most carefully, whilst pretending to see nothing amiss.

\--

Our captain knew the harbor so well that he felt entirely comfortable departing before full light. The Channel waters were calm under a waning gibbous moon, and I was relieved on account of my husband. Had we been dependent on wind we would have made little progress, but instead the mighty coal-fired steam engines moved us steadily ahead. The night air was chill but not unpleasantly so. When William saw I meant to keep him company on deck, he only admonished me to put on a warm cape and then retied my bonnet strings more snugly.

No one but I would have detected the small signs of tension in that handsome face – the fine lines at the corners of his eyes more pronounced, and his lips thinned, always a sure mark of strain. He had not slept much the night before. I followed him when he did not return from the water closet, and found him where I knew I would. He was in the big nursery armchair, twin of the one in which dear Lehzen had kept watch over me so many nights at Kensington. I would not have spied on him, but before I could retreat he moved to sit on Liam's bed first. Such love in his face! I nearly felt a pang of jealousy, not for our own son but rather for the father I had never known. He kissed our boy and I saw the glitter of unshed tears. When he went to Lily his broad shoulders were quaking. Then I did step back, careful to make no sound. His love for our daughter knew no bounds and it was not right I witness the vulnerability of this most admirable of men.

I rested my own gloved hand beside his on the rail. As always, I took the deepest comfort from his warmth and the solid feel of his presence beside me. I hope he felt the same.

We talked in low voices, quietly so the passing ship's crew could not overhear. I doubt that they were interested; to them, we were only a boring married couple. _What did we discuss?_ This, that and another. As is so often the case with us, one thought spoken aloud leads to another and we are so perfectly attuned that each understands without being told what lies behind the abbreviated references we make.

_Lord John owes you more than he showed. His uncle's brutal murder – your interest – why, you were the first to put up a reward, and – old Lord Billy, his end was what I anticipated for my own. Well, perhaps not my throat cut by a thieving valet, but to spend my last days a pottering absent-minded old ninny remembered only for his wife's infidelity. You don't remember that part? Perhaps I sanitized it for your sake – Lady William and her sister, sharing Argyll's bed..._

I recall the sensational story, of course. A well-born gentleman murdered in his bed, in the very heart of Mayfair. I might not have written it down – _see how even my memory fails, without the effort of recording at day's end_ – because then, dear Lehzen still took it upon herself to read what I wrote. A practice I finally put a halt to, during that summer of 1840.

I disputed at once, William's bleak description of what he thought his old age might have been. _Impossible! I said at once. How could there be any outcome save this? Our Lord gives us free will, it is true, but no Divine Plan could have led anywhere but here._

I made him laugh, despite his inward-looking frown. I did not mean to, but remembering that far back, when I was only just turned twenty-one, I know I said "how good it is to be past that stage of life. I am quite content to be what I am, a middle-aged woman." How William laughed, spluttering and spitting! I might have been affronted, except for the sound of that laugh. My darling loves to laugh, and gives himself over to the sensation completely. All of his love of life itself can be heard in that marvelous sound.

What I had meant was, the first unsettled months of our love when I was so very, very immature, and insecure, and selfish in my happiness. It had taken – well, I suppose a good few years for us to learn to be together. One imagines that the consummation of mutual affection is the end, but in truth I've learned it is only the start. At the very beginning when everything is new, one's nerve ends are on fire, grated raw by the constant stimulation. That might make for excitement but does not bring comfort. Then, I had been given a treasure beyond price and was constantly on guard lest it be stolen way. I had been quite unbearable at times, and even my darling, so much older and wiser and with far more experience, had to relearn all he knew about being a husband. Marriage is the most blessed of states and the most joyous of labor, but like anything worth having, it requires _work_.

 _I just mean –_ I tried to explain, each attempt met with another whoop and repetition of _middle-aged_. Finally he hugged my shoulders and kissed the top of my bonnet and I only rested my forehead on his arm. "You are a babe, my darling, my precious girl," he whispered, to erase my embarrassment.

"Do you remember-?" was used several times, during the three hours we passed at the rail. We reminisced together, finding humor in even the darker instances, vying with one another to call up another milestone moment in our shared life. If it was a contest, then William won when he repeated those words I had heard many times but only once at _such_ a moment.

"' _I, William, do become your liege man of life and limb_ …'" when he recited that ancient vow, in his husky growling voice, I felt a leap in my lower parts, and my stomach seemed to fold over on itself.

We became aware together that all around us seamen were bustling about, doing things with ropes and chains.

"Land ho, Your Majesty," a sun-browned Welshman sang out while his mates hooted and laughed. A young subaltern saw my surprise and pointed towards the west.

"Calais, ma'am," he told us. "We'll be dockside shortly."

Hearing that and seeing the relief writ plain on William's face gave me a feeling of immense satisfaction, even pride if I might say. I had helped him to pass the time without embarrassment. Had the water been rougher I suspect he might have stepped away to empty his stomach a time or two, but with such a calm crossing the distraction I provided had done its job well.

"Well, ma'am, shall we?" His manner was almost jaunty when he turned away from the rail for the first time since we'd embarked. I took his arm proudly. For the duration, I was no _Majesty._ I was only Lady Lamb.

_Calais Harbor at Dawn, 1846_

Every element of our travel had been prearranged, and all of it was done in the name of Frederick James Lamb, Baron Beauvale. Lord Beauvale and his wife were traveling with his brother, Sir William Lamb and Lady Lamb. I tasted the name often, liking it more each time I heard it said aloud. Lady Lamb, wife of William. It was all the honorific I needed, and if it wasn't _Mrs. Melbourne_ – that tender joking reference to the nativity of our love – it was close enough.

Fred and William had explained that, if not as frantic as the efforts in England, France had seen _railway fever_ take hold. Had we been traveling to Brussels, we might have boarded the Chemins de Fer du Nord railroad in Calais. For whatever reason, Compagnie des Chemins de fer de l'Ouest, the line going southwest, only extended to Reims.  We would cover the first leg of our journey by road, with stops along the way to change the horses and refresh ourselves. With no mishaps we would reach Reims by nightfall.

As I look over those lines, written at intervals during our first day on French soil, I consider crossing out those confessions of a more intimate nature. But no, I decide, if my thoughts and impressions serve any lasting purpose, they must be a true reflection of my state of mind. I cannot imagine what value they might have to a student of the history of my reign, but perhaps in some far-distant future my great-great-great-grandchildren will come across this scribbling and understand a little more what made them who they will be.

It is past one of the clock, so I suppose I should accurately jot the date.

**Thursday, 10 September 1846**

I sit in the window, looking out over the quiet streets. Fred had bespoke rooms for us in the home of an old connection, Mme. Lola Montez. Madame was waiting for us on the doorstep of her quaint un hôtel. All I could see in the dark were window boxes overflowing with geraniums against pink plaster walls. Not precisely a commercial hôtel, yet not a family home either, we were shown to pleasant rooms made on a comfortable but not grand scale.

One room for Fred and Adine, another for William and I – no need for pretense in order to maintain the polite fiction that like most couples of rank we slept separately – and a third for Billy and the woman masquerading as his wife. I wondered briefly, when they closed the door behind them, if the charade extended to physical intimacy. We had several other carefully chosen guards amongst our servants. The only true servants we'd brought were William's valet and my maid; they would see to Fred and Adine as well. There were four other men, clothed in nondescript attire, who did a poor job of aping the manner expected of those in service. It was enough.

We were _incognito_ in name only. As William put it, a wink-and-a-nod arrangement with the governments of the countries we passed through. Ours was no State trip and there would be no pomp and circumstance, no official visits, no parades and reviews, but it would be bad form to lose an anointed sovereign and so each government made their own arrangements to ensure our safe passage.

Upon leaving the ship, we broke our fast while the luggage was offloaded and secured to a sturdy second vehicle. William, relieved of the worry of our voyage, was a joy to watch, joking and scuffling with his brother like the boys they had been. Adine and I watched them with tolerant smiles that did little to hide our desperate love for this pair.

They rode on horseback, then joined us in the carriage, then again clamored for release and mounted once more. I found myself teasing Fred as freely as my own husband, and Billy was treated as one of them. Adine and I talked of our youth – she had grown up in a peripatetic family, daughter of an Austrian diplomat – and read aloud to each other from Mr. Dickens' _Pictures from Italy_ , written during his own Venetian holiday the year before.

I only belatedly realized that the uncommon lightness of being I felt was _freedom_ , relieved of the cares and concerns of duty. I was only Victoria, wife of William, sister to Fred and Adine and – for the duration – Billy.

I have written overlong, and now I must stop. My darling sleeps soundly, and if sleep does not come then I will savor the feel of his body, bask in the heady scent of his maleness, cup my hands over those delicate places that are mine alone. My fatigue keeps me from resting – what Lehzen would call _overtired_ in Lily – but if I don't close my eyes now, I will sleep on the train and I don't want to miss a single thing.


	24. Chapter 24

I write this from the sitting room in our most charming hôtel. It is perfectly situated for indulging in the pleasure of a walking tour, something I could never contemplate at home. We arrived in Geneva ahead of schedule, thanks to the speedy and very clean and efficient rail service from Reims to the border. Monsieur Guizot was quite wise to entrust all of our _French_ arrangements to his friend  and fellow minister Count Duchâte. I shall greatly miss that dear man – Guizot, that is – if Palmerston's machinations drive a wedge in our relations.

Place de Longemalle 17 is the street name of our situation. Fred and Adine are on one end of the third floor, reserved solely for our use, and William and I on the other. From my window I can see the lake in the distance, glimpsed between rooftops and church spires. On a sunny day I am told we should be able to see the snowy mountain peaks, but so far, despite clear blue skies, a haze obscures that vision. As soon as we washed and changed, we set out on a walking tour of the Old City.

Promenade de la Treille is a lovely walk that leads to Place Neuve.  We walked the length of it on the afternoon of our arrival. We picnicked in Jardin Anglais – the English gardens – and then strolled the lakefront on the Quai du Mont Blanc. Ferry boats take visitors around the lake. William asked if I should like to go on one, if only to see closely the charming little villages on the far shore. I declined promptly. My poor darling has had enough of water for a spell, and I was content enough to sketch while the gentlemen lounged after partaking of cold ham, cheese and bread in the park.

We walked back by a different direction, over the uneven cobblestone streets. We admired the St. Pierre's Cathedral and viewed _Maison Tavel_ at rue du Puits-Saint-Pierre, which it was explained, was the oldest house in Geneva. Even Adine and I were hard-pressed by the end to find enough superlatives to gratify the gentleman escorting us. Fred and William had abandoned even their droll commentary and lapsed into exhausted silence.

Our guide in all this was the son-in-law of Monsieur Comte Louis-Mathieu Molé. We were to pretend this gentleman's fortuitous arrival on the shores of Lake Geneva, and his taking up residence in the same hotel, were mere coincidence. Of course I knew better. King Louis-Phillipe had sent him, to show us every courtesy and I'm sure to spy on us as well, lest we engage in politicking whilst we were in the Canton. Poor Louis-Phillipe is as much a helpless pawn of his ministers as I am; the power of absolute monarchy exists only in the minds of those who seek to hide behind it for their own advantage. I was able to confide at least this much, intending that assurance reach the king, that I had most forcefully discouraged Lord Palmerston in his meddling and had no reason to promote any of the competing candidates for Queen Isabell's hand. I only wish the little ninny would pick a bridegroom or announce her intention to remain single.

That first evening we were so exhausted by our excursion around the city center that none of us contemplated any engagement more strenuous than dinner. I did want to make these notes while my impressions were fresh, and to sort through the sketches I had made.

Dinner was served in a private chamber, midway between their apartment and ours. I neglected to dress for the occasion, and was relieved to see Adine likewise appeared in the simplest of morning gowns. Fred and William, our disreputable pair, came to the table in shirtsleeves like simple laborers. My darling always looks especially well in such relaxed dishabille, shirt hanging loose over his trousers and sleeves rolled back. His forearms are so _manly_ , tanned against white linen. Billy, of course, needed no invitation to relax etiquette. He strolled in with his long hair unbound and shirt unbuttoned to expose his chest. The woman with him was present for our _protection_ , we were told, and yet I couldn't quite approve of her demeanor. I do not think she is respectable.

Our dinner was thin strips of veal with mushrooms in a cream sauce, removed by a dish of potatoes with hot cheese scraped over and bowls of gherkins and pickled onions. We all ate heartily, even greeting with cheers of approval the sweet, which consisted of shortbread in the form of a pie crust filled with the dark chocolate for which the Swiss are so rightly famous and heavy cream. When the cheese was brought in we were quite sated, but I tasted the salty pale Emmental so as not to slight our hosts and found it unobjectionable.

The gentlemen lingered so long over their port that I suspected it was fatigue which prompted their defection. Adine wrote letters while I labeled each of my drawings, so later I could recall which depicted what. The _female_ who traveled with Billy paced restlessly back and forth, making no attempt at conversation. She was – _ripe_ , was the only word which came to mind, in a way I was certain sent signals to the beast in every male. Not my darling William's type, I am glad to say. Not that he has not had his share of intimate connections, but never – at least to my knowledge, and I confess to making a study of it – with a female so completely wanton in appearance and manner.

This person, with the unlikely name of Grace, quite ignored Adine and me. After making some few attempts to include her in our conversation, I was content to do likewise. I had made up my mind to dismiss both of our protectors as soon as Billy came in, when we were startled by the concierge's triple knock.

Billy's female sprang into action and I realized forcefully the _other_ purpose of such blatant physicality. She was at the door before either Adine or I could react, and had her foot and shoulder wedged into place just as it was pushed open without ceremony.

Had we been under attack from some foreign mercenaries bent on abduction or assassination, I do not know whether that one defender would have prevailed. But rather than grizzled, begrimed Chartists reeking of onion, we were besieged by a trio of plump little women.

I recognized Bess Crosbie, formerly known – in her Dublin days – as Lady Brandon. We had met once previously, when she accompanied Susan to Paris. Her letters to William were infrequent and unobjectionable – as unobjectionable as correspondence with one's husband's former mistress _could_ be.

William tells me she was never considered a great beauty, and I see nothing in her appearance to have attracted a man like William. When I said as much, he only laughed and said my youth makes me judge too harshly and time takes its toll on women more readily than men.

I don't mean to sound as though I dislike her. Certainly she is not as persistent in her desire to rekindle what once was, as that Norton creature. Lady Brandon's conversation has the virtue of novelty. She says the oddest things! She told me plainly on another occasion that theirs was not a _love_ affair, although they liked each other well enough.

I can't be as charitable about her daughters, so I will write nothing at all. They have neither their mother's wit nor conduct. I understood their education to have been sporadic, once they were whisked off to the Continent with Susan under William's protection, but I found nothing even tolerably amusing in their conversation, and their manner was – to be generous – not one accustomed to the drawing room of anyone with a pretense to gentility. At one point when their high spirits exceeded even their parent's patience, I heard Lady Brandon murmur to my husband.

"I daresay Lily would have been the better for it, had I applied the cane as you advised when she began sneaking out."

I might have gasped audibly. Did she think I would not understand the enormity of that offhand comment? Or how her husband's publication of William's letters had been the genesis of rumors no decent person would even whisper aloud?

After they were gotten rid of, or rather when their chatter and high spirits finally wound down, there was nothing to be said. We bid one another good night and retreated to our separate chambers.

Without being told, for there was no need, as soon as William had been put into his nightshirt I bade him lie flat and began kneading the muscles of his back where I knew he held the exertions of the day. It soothed both of us, I think. I felt the tension go out of him, and my own nervous anxiety dissipate as I concentrated only on the task at hand. He made some token protest when I took his feet in my lap and began rubbing the soles with my thumbs. _You don't have to –_ faded away, as it must. Of course I _had_ to; that's what love does, it nurtures and comforts and cares.

"I've commended them to your care, in my will, you recall," were the first words he spoke about our strange visitors. I had by then completed my ministrations and crawled under the heavy goose down coverlet. My hand lay palm-down on his abdomen, feeling the working of his insides underneath. It might have moved further, but my darling was weary. _That_ , we would always have.

" _Mmmhmm_ ," or some similar sound was my only response.

I knew that Lady Brandon – I must remember to call her Crosbie, since she forfeited her husband's title when she fled England - and her well-fed daughters were dependent on the small pension he sent them annually, and she was bequeathed a modest sum. I need not understand or approve, but I could admire the sense of honor which prompted him. Each of those women had their lives disrupted because of their connection to him – and their husbands' duplicity and avarice, it must be noted – and my William felt himself duty-bound to contribute to their support in recompense.

"It is part of who you are, William Lamb, to never turn away from those you once loved."

I hoped my words reassured him. He knows that I cannot bear discussion of any eventuality that did not include his presence; I hope he knows also that I would honor his wishes in every way, and that would include subsidizing Bess Crosbie and those horrid daughters.

"Not 'loved', sweetheart…never loved…only you…" that wonderful raspy voice was thick with sleep. I kissed him and arranged the bedcovers just as he likes. Then I said my prayers and laid my cheek on his breast.

♛

On our second day in Geneva dawn snuck in on cat's paws, the sky so low and overcast that we all overslept. There was no pressing business to which I must attend, and the novelty of lingering abed was too delicious to forfeit. The Swiss air was cool and fresh and, even with the threat of rain, less oppressively damp than that of London. We had left the casement windows open and it was inexpressibly pleasant to feel a chill on exposed skin while sharing the warmth of my husband's body under the thick goose down bed cover.

Alas, old training dies hard, and I was soon restless enough to rise. I wrote in my journal, choosing my words carefully when I described _Lily_ Crosbie or Brandon or whatever she called herself, and watched the city come alive below us.  While I stood at the window watching a single sail boat on the lake, I was suddenly overcome with a decidedly _unpleasant_ sensation. Was it melancholy or disorientation or some brew of both? How absurd! My darling lay not ten feet away, snoring gently, and with him, how could I be less than perfectly content?

I turned it over in my mind, seeking that which disturbed my peace. Those foolish women, sprung up out of William's past? No; I dismissed that notion out of hand. The prospect of dining with Susan and her family? No; at least, I was the slightest bit apprehensive, only because William's ward, now fully grown with a husband and children of her own, was the last link between his first life and this, our life. But that didn't feel right either.

As I searched my thoughts, I found myself wondering what the children were doing at this very moment. How had they taken the news of our absence? We had told them, of course, but at their tender ages the prospect was only an abstract. And then I knew, and marveled at the knowledge: I was homesick, and more, I missed our children.

I know I am not an ideal parent. I love William so completely it is difficult to make room in my heart for anyone else. I am scrupulous in devoting an hour a day to them, come what may, and during that time I listen to them recite their lessons and encourage them in proper deportment. When I see them with their father – their _stepfather_ , in the eyes of the world, as much as that rouses in me a helpless fury each time I hear the word – I am reminded that there is something I lack, the spontaneity and warmth he shows in abundance.

I turned around and went to the little French writing desk and scrawled out a quick note, careless even of my handwriting.

_Dearest Liam and Lily–_

_Your dear Father and I are in Geneva, a city of the Swiss Confederation. On Monday we will take a long train ride to our ultimate destination in Venice. Yesterday we walked all around the Old City and saw many pretty buildings. Our guide on this tour told us about Die Kappeler Milchsuppe. Long ago when the Papists and Protestants were about to fight a battle, they met in a great field near here. While the generals met to negotiate for peace, the two armies came together. Rather than fighting, they lay down their arms and made a great pot of soup. The Papists brought milk and the Protestants bread, and rather than bloodshed, they ate together and made peace. There is now a monument to this armistice and it is an example for all our ministers to follow, as your dear Papa did._

_Mama misses you greatly, and longs to hug and kiss you again. Papa sends his love and his blessing. Be good for Grandmama and dear Lehzen. We will all be together again soon._

_Mama & Papa_

♛

We ate sparingly at luncheon, and then Adine and I went out with Grace as an escort, leaving Fred and William to their own devices. The Anglican church in Geneva held services in Old Hospital Chapel at Place du Bourg de Four, as they had done since our first _charge d'affairs_ took up residence in the city. The newly installed bishop Charles Sumner had formed a committee to raise the funds needed to build a place of worship.

The new Anglican church was to be funded entirely by private subscription, and so I had in my reticule a draught on William's bank, a significant sum we would contribute to the building effort. My darling's stance on religion had not changed since he so famously said 'While I cannot be regarded as a pillar of the church, I must be regarded as a buttress, for I support it from the outside.' And yet, for me and the children, he considered it entirely right and proper, that I have the solace of my faith to guide me in my duty. Thus, since I could not subscribe on behalf of the Crown, he lent me his name so that we could privately donate £500.

We went to St. Peter's, the fine old cathedral, where we admired the stained glass and altar. We sat quietly in contemplation for a time and then were joined by and Bishop Sumner. As we left the dim interior for the hustle and bustle of the City, I said one more silent prayer, that my darling could someday find the same comfort and peace in communion with Our Lord that I did.

The Cuénods had courteously extended an invitation to Fred and Adine as well. Curiously, Fred had never met Susan – he had been abroad, at the height of his Foreign Service career, when she came to live with William and Caro after Lady Ponsonby's death. I was secretly relieved to know Adine would be at my side. I loved her as a sister, but also – and I am loathe to admit it, even in these lines – I an unaccustomed to going out into society entirely unattended. As little as I appreciated the constant presence of my ladies-in-waiting, I was learning that such could be a comfort as well.

I dressed with more care than I devoted to many a State occasion. Aimee Cuénod's family were members of a strict Protestant sect which shunned the outward display of wealth, and Susan had adopted their habits and traditions upon her marriage. William has frequently speculated on the improbability of the hoydenish, outspoken girl Caro had reared marrying into a near-Quaker clan.

William was as easy as ever, no trace of anxiety in his bearing. He was ready before me, handsome in tie and tails. I've overheard my ladies praise his fine leg, and in white silk stockings I could admire his trim well-shaped calves too. His skin tanned readily, while mine only grew spotty if I didn’t take care to wear sun hat and gloves, and I thought him especially striking with the white of his collar and cravat standing against the outline of his jaw.

"I could have used the services of a barber," he commented, knowing what I would say.

"My father was outraged when Peniston first adopted the new mode of short hair à la Brutus. He considered us all no better than barbarians, shearing our locks."

I prefer William's hair long enough so that it curls against his face and over the back of his collar. My darling would be the handsomest of men in any style, but so long as I held a spouse's prerogative, I would ever vote for long hair.

My gown was "simple", a nod to the religious sensibilities of our hosts, but I knew from her letters that Susan interpreted this dictate to mean only avoidance of excessive lace and furbelows. Blue green changeable silk with a close fitting bodice and modestly flared skirts, my shoulders not entirely bared and a modest square neckline. It would do, I thought. For my only jewelry I chose garnets.

Maison Cuénod is located some distance from the Old City, in a new neighborhood south of the Rhône. The house was respectably large, three stories above the ground floor, but set directly on the street with neither portico nor vista. The façade was plain grey granite blocks, unadorned, and from the exterior looked to be a bleak cheerless abode. To my surprise and relief, we were shown into an elegant drawing room which contained all the richness of color and texture so sorely lacking outside.

Mere Cuénod, Aimee's mother, greeted us. We were introduced as Lord and Lady Melbourne – no use hiding behind William's Christian name here – to the crème of middle-class society in the canton of Genève. Clearly we were on display, and only at the very end of the receiving line did we come to Susan and the slight figure of her husband.

Susan Cuénod, a year older than I, had all the natural elegance of face and form one would expect from one of her bloodline, and the ease of manner of one who had come to Brocket Hall at four years of age and remembered no parents except William and Caroline. While a part of me would always harbor deep resentment for all those years under my husband's roof, knowing a part of him I never could, I could not but feel outraged that she should be accepted on sufferance in this decidedly middle-class enclave. I made them all wait while I kissed Susan on both cheeks and offered my own, showing her a smile of blinding warmth. For William's sake. She had been raised as his daughter, foster-sister to his son, and so she would be my daughter too.

For people so openly disdainful, even hostile, to the idea of a monarchy and disapproving of the morals of the aristocracy, the Cuénod's burghers and bankers were craven sycophants eager to boast later of conversing with a Queen. That was, I had found, usually the case with this class of persons.

 _How do you find Genève?_ I was asked again and again. Here, no one knew or cared if they did, that protocol dictated the queen must speak first. I did not mind; in fact, vastly preferred to parrot the same phrases again and again, praising with complete honesty the cleanliness of the streets and tidy appearance of even the laboring class houses we passed. A few times I was even asked whether I had children, which made me wonder just how ingenious this charade of indifference might become.

Mere Cuénod found me momentarily alone and hurriedly seated herself beside me. Her question, without preamble, went to the secret of Susan's paternity.

"We cannot approve, of course. Sin is sin. But if Lord Melbourne would only acknowledge her openly, then her birth could be registered in our church."

I was nonplussed; had Susan claimed William was her biological father? How absurd! Surely she would not do such a thing? I grew suddenly, visibly annoyed at this avaricious crone's open greed. She might not care for power or position, in the sense we English think of it, but she was more than willing to use my husband's name and connection to the Crown for the advancement of her family's pecuniary gain.

I think I told her bluntly that if Susan were William's natural daughter, he – we – would proclaim it quite openly. As it stands, he has acted the role of father since she was old enough to speak, had seen to her education and given her a substantial marriage settlement so she might retain her independence.

Later, when the novelty of my presence had worn thin, I had the opportunity to speak with Susan privately. She apologized for monopolizing William – _but we see one another so seldom, when we do it quite brings back the old days._ She sorely missed Brocket Hall, Susan said, and told her own children about her happy childhood there, surrounded by Caroline's menagerie and her hangers-on, an atmosphere which, if lacking in discipline and structure, was filled with laughter and love, music and books. 

 _Ma mere_ is a dragon, ma'am, Susan said, with a giggle so infectious I joined in.

I impulsively told her that she must bring her own children to England. We would receive her at Court, and take them to Brocket Hall so she might show them her childhood home. _And you must meet Liam and Lily_ , I added. _Think of them as your brother and sister._

Susan's remarkably lovely dark-fringed eyes misted over at the sound of my children's names.

 _How impossible it is to imagine they are brother and sister to Augustus!_ she exclaimed, but I knew she meant it only rhetorically and did not take offense.

Before we rejoined the others, Susan diffidently offered me a framed miniature.  _Caro drew me, but this is the only portrait I ever sat for. If - if you don't mind and think William might want it -_ The gesture touched me. _They - we - do not believe in indulging vanity with something as frivolous as portraiture, so Aimee had me sit privately._

When we took our leave she picked up a shawl and followed us to the street, incurring such a look of disapproval from her mother-in-law that, as William might say, there would be hell to pay later. I kissed and embraced her and stood back so William might do the same.

He kissed her cheek and cuffed her under the chin as one might a small boy. "Take care you don't set all the pious Puritans at odds, you little scamp," he admonished in a teasing tone. He was not overly affected by the reunion, and for that I was both grateful and a little curious.

He released her and she stepped back from the curb, ready to go back inside. Only, just as she was about to do so she stopped and stood still, staring back at my husband with a burning intensity. As though memorizing everything about him, I thought. And then I knew. Susan _was_ recording what she knew could be her last sight of the man who had raised her. The idea made me shiver.

It was I who pleaded exhaustion, scarcely waiting for Skerrett to remove my gown and loosen the strings on my corset. If my darling was worn out by our traipse through the streets of Geneva, I felt the overwhelming fatigue which so often set in after I was forced to perform in a social setting. For all we had in common, there we diverged. My husband was enlivened by conversation in company, where it only taxed my nerves. He liked nothing better than to while away his free time prone on a sofa, reading, while my physical energy demanded an outlet.

William dismissed my maid and took over her duties, loosening my hair and spreading it over my shoulders. I gloried in the sensation of my husband's gentle touch, the deftness with which he worked buttons and hooks. When I was ready I held up my arms and he lowered my nightdress over my head. He kissed the small brown mark on my chest, a mole scarcely larger than a freckle. I forgot the foreboding I'd felt when Susan looked at him, and forgot my weariness too. Tomorrow we would leave for Venice. Tonight...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although it is more fun to keep readers wondering where the line is drawn between reality as our history knows it, and the alternative history in this series of novels, I do want to add a postscript from ThePeerage.com on the fascinating story of "Lord Melbourne's Susan" (the name of her biography, written by Susan's great-great-granddaughter.) I treasure this little volume and it sits on my writing desk. No other scholarly volume, except that of David Cecil, shows William Lamb's fine character so clearly. For that alone I adore it.
> 
> "Biographer Dorothy Howell-Thomas writes in part that Susan Churchill’s childhood in the care of relatives challenges a received popular historical view of character flaws of William and Caroline Lamb, and the Duchess and third Duke of Devonshire, in particular:
> 
> The importance of Susan's story lies in the circumstances of her life, for they reveal hitherto unnoticed aspects of the characters of Lady Bessborough and her husband, the third Earl [of Devonshire], and especially do they alter the inherited image which we have of William and Caroline Lamb. The light they throw is a refracted light only, because Susan did not keep a childhood journal nor did she write reminiscences of her life at Brocket, the Lambs' country home — would that she had: her journal begins in Geneva when she was in her fifteenth year. But the very fact that William and Caroline, to whom tradition attributes so tormented a family life, so little consistency, responsibility and generosity, brought her up and set her on her way to adulthood, and watched over her with affection to the end of their lives, speaks as only facts can. Her existence also lightens, just a little, the gloomy sadness which tradition, again, has cast over the last years of Caroline's life.
> 
> In a real sense, therefore, even if at one remove, we see these people, with some of their children, their friends, their doctors and their servants, through the eyes of the child Susan. They grow in stature in the process. Lady Bessborough, who had of course known her young cousin Harriet Spencer from childhood, takes the baby Susan at birth and has her looked after in her house at Roehampton. Her daughter Caroline Lamb continues to care for her when Lady Bessborough dies. The presence of the 'mysterious child' at Brocket has been said to have been a 'whim' of Lady Caroline's; on the contrary, Caroline was, it seems, accepting a trust inherited from her mother which continued until her own death. Then Lord Melbourne, though with less enthusiasm, sees to Susan's education until her marriage, and even beyond that continues to act as one of the trustees of her marriage settlement.
> 
> Two other women, Lady Brandon and Mrs Norton, respectively mistress and — it must be believed on his solemn word, no more than — close friend of Melbourne, touched Susan's life in some degree, as did, in care and kindness to her, Lord Bessborough and his sons after their sister Caroline's death.10,1,11,12 From 9 August 1837, her married name became Cuénod. She and Aimé Timothée Cuénod were co-founders and equal partners of the Cuénod-Churchill Bank circa 1840.


	25. Chapter 25

Travel by rail accomplished in hours what would have taken days by road. More important even than expediency, nearly as vital a consideration as safety, was their need to circumvent as much French soil as might be achieved without tacking days onto their journey.

The novelty of travel paled soon after leaving Lausanne. Victoria was no admirer of snow-capped peaks on the distance, and saved her praise for the tidy, well-kept farmhouses and Swiss efficiency in general. Melbourne was neither a romantic nor an adventurer by nature, and Victoria's innate pragmatism – whether a German trait, or good hard-headed English practicality – suited his inclinations perfectly.  No need to contemplate his little queen taking a midnight swim _sans_ apparel in one of the less-than-hygienic canals. He grinned, remembering Victoria's reaction when he described Caro doing just that. _Are they clean enough for bathing?_ she'd asked, wrinkling her little nose with distaste. _Mr. Dickens said that the canals are full of stagnant water and as much sewage as the Thames._

So much for what his first wife had considered a desperately romantic gesture; he might have once been dazzled by Caroline's impetuosity, but that wore one out quickly. He vastly preferred the illimitable peace and contentment of this late marriage to all the high drama of his youth.

Couriers would meet them at Milan, with the first batch of accumulated letters and dispatches. Until then, they passed the time the best they could in a private carriage. This was no train outfitted for royalty. Their coach was as comfortable as might be expected, but no more. The tracks they traveled were miracles of engineering, some of the rails suspended from the side of a mountain on a cinder bed scarcely wider than the train body itself. Seen from a dizzying height, the valley below held doll-sized houses and barns but mostly only featureless pasture.

Melbourne watched Victoria as she watched their progress closely, concentrating as though she might avert catastrophe by sheer vigilance. When the train made its first stop, in Vevey, he saw the tension drain visibly from her narrow shoulders.

"Vivey – isn't that where Susan and Aimee will open their second chartered bank?" she asked, reading white letters on a green-pained sign that greeted them as they disembarked.

"You might be right; in fact, I'm sure you are," he agreed, surprised and pleased that she had remembered so carefully.

They parted to visit their respective comfort stations, Grace escorting her charges with a backward glance toward the males in the party. The train provided such accommodations in the car just beyond their own, but Victoria had taken one horrified look and announced her intention to wait until they stopped moving.

When they regrouped some minutes later, Victoria clutched several hand-painted postal cards. Nonplussed, for he'd gotten out of the habit of carrying money, Melbourne turned to Billy. For a few francs all the cards were Victoria's, the writing of which might keep her mind off the hazards of travel.

Flush with the shillings and pound notes Billy had supplied, Melbourne chose several bottles of a locally grown Chasselas and on impulse, chose three more of a promising Allegretto rosé. If any proved palatable he would send back for several cases of each. If not – he was no admirer of the sweet wines Victoria preferred – it would do well enough to while away the hours.

Adine returned with a napkin-covered basket full to overflowing, that she promptly pushed at Fred. Laden with bounty, they reboarded and were greeted by a brisk rebuke and warning that the _Chemin de fer de Strasbourg à Bâle_ line waited for no one.

While Victoria was still divesting herself of bonnet and cloak Melbourne went decisively around the car pulling down the window covers.

"Enough of worrying, my girl," he announced gaily. "We will get there when we get there."

They set out their picnic and opened the first of the bottles.

♛

Melbourne felt inordinately pleased with himself, at the result of his impromptu purchase. Victoria had no head for spirits, and maintained the strictest control over herself for the sake of decorum. The mild sweet wines raised no alarm, and she consumed just enough to loosen her vigilance and bring a pretty flush to her cheeks. Soon she and Adine were giggling like schoolgirls, whispering together, teasing and flirtatious with the gentlemen.

"They keep us young, Fred," Melbourne told his brother, grinning indulgently.

"Young enough? I sometimes wonder…"

"So long as she is content, that is all I can ask."

"And is she? I wonder sometimes about Adine, away from society at Derbyshire for much of the year, tending my gout and visiting the tenants."

"Then bring her to court, Fred," Melbourne told his brother. "You needn't confine yourself to the Hall. It ran itself for many years."

His brother's young wife was the daughter of an Austrian diplomat, and had been reared in the sparkling society of European capitals. Melbourne Hall would be a letdown, not precisely isolated but far enough from London to make travel something that must be planned in advance. Theirs was a love match, despite the forty-odd years' difference in ages, an unpredictable parallel to Victoria and Melbourne.

Melbourne had given up his early tendency to dwell on the vast disparity in age in his own marriage. Temperament and character counted for as much or more – he did not count love in that equation; love was the most effortless factor – and in both he and Victoria were surprisingly well suited. She was, in many ways, mature for her years. Her sense of duty and diligence more than counterbalanced the inexperience of youth, and her clear-sightedness co-existed with a strong vein of morality that was refreshing to one of his cynical nature. Victoria had lovingly chided him on more than one occasion, telling him that he was an idealist at heart and his cynicism only assumed.

She and Adine had been seated on the carpet, their skirts pooled out around them. Just as Victoria attempted to rise, the movement of the train toppled her forward. Melbourne caught her neatly before she could fall, and she complacently mistook his rescue for an embrace.

Her forward momentum pushed them both back, so that she landed on his lap in the banquette. Rather than remove herself to a more dignified position, Victoria wound both arms around his neck and brought her face close to his.

"Kiss me, William. I know you want to." Victoria's lips were pursed, her eyes closed in anticipation. Melbourne complied with a chaste peck.

"I think, sweetheart, you are tipsy," he told her, huffing a laugh.

"I am not! Only, we haven't – " she whispered the rest in his ear, so that her breath sent a jolt down his spine.

"And I think we will rest in our own compartment," Fred announced, lifting his own wife to her feet. "We will dine like civilized people, in Château de la Bâtiaz tonight. Then we cross the St. Bernard Pass."

"Pooh," Adine said, wrinkling her nose. "Château de la Bâtiaz is only kept open to make money by a _merchant_ prince. There is no nobility left in the Swiss Confederation. Victoria, when we enter Austrian territory you will see true refinement."

Victoria was not listening; she only smiled sleepily, her face nestled in Melbourne's neck. He laughed and shrugged, showing his brother a helpless expression.

♛

Their stay in Martigny was as Adine had predicted. They were expected, and clean plain rooms awaited them in the Château. Victoria was not impressed by the hospitality of their hosts, and only the Swiss penchant for clean floors, freshly aired rooms and spotless linen received her unmitigated praise. They dined with fellow travelers, who would travel by road over the high pass in daylight, and Melbourne intercepted a vaguely puzzled expression from Victoria at several points throughout the evening.

He conversed easily with the others at table, while Victoria and Adine kept to themselves. Such reticence was expected of ladies dining in company with strangers, and earned them no curious glances.

"I think no one has recognized us since we left Geneva. And there, only Aimé's family knew who we were," Victoria said when they were alone in their bedchamber.

Her maid had only stayed to unpin her hair and put away her jewels in their traveling cases. Victoria dismissed her with the assurance that her bed in the upper-story dormitories reserved for the use of servants traveling with their employers was clean and comfortable.

"Are you pleased?" he asked curiously.

Victoria spoke four languages fluently, including the French and High German used in such a cross-roads town, and had done no more than murmur a few desultory remarks to her own sister-in-law while listening to the gentlemen talk.

"Oh, yes, extremely." She'd answered so promptly, and with such a false brightness, that Melbourne laughed out loud.

"Well, I am, of course," Victoria continued. She sat on the bed, rubbing rosewater lotion into her hands. Melbourne watched her lazily, appreciating the fetching picture she presented in corset, petticoat and silk stockings.

"It's just…not quite what I'm accustomed to. I felt as though I'm invisible. Or a child, expected to speak only when I'm spoken to."

"You missed nothing. Some talk of provincial politics, and even more of the price of stocks trading on the English Exchange. As an Englishman, I was presumed to know far more than I did about the expected return on railway investments and the price of cotton imported from America."

Victoria frowned, her head tilted as though puzzling out some vexing problem.

"I think…" she began slowly, drawing out the words. "that it must be what an ordinary woman experiences, that sense of being superfluous."

Melbourne laughed again, but this time he stopped, seeing her frown deepen.

"Only amongst the middle class," he told her. "I assure you, women of higher station are certainly not regarded as superfluous. I suppose the strivers need to maintain such strict control of their wives and daughters to compensate for their own self-doubt."

"I would not like it," Victoria said firmly.

"Think of Miss Eden, traveling, writing her books. She was the guest of a maharajah, quite unescorted."

"Or your Mrs. Norton." Melbourne tightened his lips at the possessive pronoun, and shook his head dismissively.

"Very well, her, as another example. Or Mary Shelley, in Greece, unmarried. Or my old friend Elizabeth Holland."

"Or Susan," Victoria contributed. "You must be so proud of her. Co-owner of a bank that bears her name along with her husband's."

" _That_ , I'm sure, scandalized her proper mama-in-law, a bourgeois harridan if ever I saw one, still smelling of the shops. But she had no choice, if I was to release the rest of the sum I'd settled on Susan. We did not raise her to be dependent on any man."

"But would I be a woman like them, if I was not queen? Or just a little ninny without a word to say for myself?"

"You?" Melbourne lifted an eyebrow, pantomiming his skepticism. "I think not. I daresay if you were not queen – if you abdicated tomorrow, or England became a Republic – you would land on your feet anywhere. You have a decided character, you are strong and determined, you apply yourself to any problem set before you and if you're still somewhat shy in a drawing room, you could stand up to any number of men in a boardroom."

Pleased, Victoria raised her eyes to his and smiled lovingly.

"You praise me too highly, Lord M. Whatever I am, you've taught me."

"Nonsense! You had an excellent governess, and the benefit of individualized instruction by the top men in their fields. Senior lecturers from Trinity College, the University in Edinburgh, from Cambridge. I know well; t was my duty to assess the educational achievements of our Heir Apparent. But you brought a keen mind and attention to detail, a desire to excel and unmatched work ethic. Those would put you on the top of the heap wherever you landed."

"I like that," she responded. "That you think so highly of me. And, in some ways, only for playacting, you understand…it's a delicious change to be only your wife. An ordinary woman who is not expected to make decisions or have opinions or always be watched, my least word attended to."

" _That_ , I can never believe. But if we are to playact, I have another idea…" Melbourne pushed back the long hair curtaining her face, so he could see her expression clearly.

And he told her. Those passages, long ago committed to memory when he'd copied out entire pages of _Les Dames Gallantes_ , came readily to his lips. His French was not as elegant as Victoria's, but the meaning was clear. She listened avidly, and he heard her breath coming faster, small pert breasts heaving with each exhalation.

The titillation of those chapters, written a hundred-odd years before, combined sheer novelty and naughtiness. Now, as before, it was context rather than content which created such a considerable reaction. That, and the inescapable fact that such erotica had been tried, and described, and put into print. _Call it literary voyeurism_ , Melbourne thought, showing Victoria a deliberately wolfish grin. She returned it with a saucy look of her own, shyly daring him. He needed no more permission than that, and upended her onto his lap while she squealed with delight.

"Our last night in Swiss territory. Tomorrow we enter Italy, and then Venice. There you will find an atmosphere decidedly different than any you've experienced. I don't want you to be unprepared…"

Victoria's impatient squirming cut short his whimsical speech.

"Very well, Mrs. Melbourne, I will show you…"


	26. Chapter 26

****

_**Colchicum Autumnal** _

* * *

 

**Wednesday 15 September 1846**

I was going to begin this entry by writing "we are days behind schedule", but stopped myself. These hours, these days, are ours and ours alone and any schedule is ours to keep or break as we will.

We spend a night and a day and another night in _Milano_ , unplanned and no part of our itinerary, which had us staying aboard the train until we reached our final destination. I had relinquished control to William, in fact begged him to make all decisions without consulting me, as an ordinary husband would. But then, circumstances intervened and I had things my way in the end.

No train, no matter how well-appointed, can be as comfortable as a fixed abode. Even our royal coach – and this conveyance was hardly that! – had its limitations. Narrow beds with hard cushions, the inevitable constant movement and a pervasive odor of coal which grows more oppressive over time, are no substitute for the feather beds and thick carpets of home.

Until Adine approached me, I had taken little notice of Fred's discomfort. We naturally moved about little, so his unchanging posture in one of the armchairs caused no comment. She told me in confidence that his gout was giving him pain, and his foot was swollen to grotesque proportions so that he could wear no more than a slipper. I was at once all concern, so that it was doubly mortifying when she added, "…and William has been feeling ill since we left Geneva…"

My husband, my darling – why must I be told by his brother's wife? What sort of unfeeling monster was I?

I sent Billy to hold the train – we might be traveling incognito, but I am who I am, and Billy is who _he_ is – and Grace to find local accommodations suitable for our entire party. When we disembarked Fred could scarcely hobble, with a stick in one hand and big Billy's strong arm around him for support. William was confused when I told him the decision had been made, but accepted without question it was for his brother's sake. I examined him as closely as I could and saw that he was pale under his high summer color.

We took rooms in a lovely private home, our hostess a genteel widow who assured us she was accustomed to renting her rooms to English milords and ladies. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a small square, overlooking a modest fountain at its center and outside our windows, bright flowers in profusion spilled from window boxes on every house I could see.

A very few minutes consultation with Madame Tuscaloni and she'd sent her cook to procure a fresh fowl and vegetables for the sustaining broth I'd ordered. That and newly baked bread – without the thick layer of butter William preferred – would be the evening meal for both of our invalidish husbands. A physician was summoned, and arrived post-haste. I was instantly relieved to see a Jewish gentleman – always the finest medical practitioners, in my experience – neither so young as to be unused to the vagaries of the human condition, nor so old as to be set in his ways and unfamiliar with modern practice. He further relieved my mind by telling us of his friendship with Sir Charles Scudamore, with whom he had become acquainted at the Medical College in Vienna.

This physician, Dr. Bernstein by name, won Fred's trust by discounting the use of purgatives such as calomel. He preferred dosing with Colchicum autumnal, a nostrum brewed from September crocuses blooming in abundance. Our English physicians had been slow to abandon their practices of purging and bleeding, but Dr. Bernstein cited Dr. Henry Robertson's publication _On the Nature and Treatment of Gout_ as having opened his own eyes to the efficacy of what had previously been deemed a primitive remedy. Used carelessly, these lovely flowers produced a poisonous substance; used judiciously, they decreased the swelling of gout and dislodged the crystals which caused it.

This interested Fred enough that he vowed to search out Dr. Robertson when we returned to London, and he compliantly swallowed the bitter brew.

Moving on to his second patient – the good doctor's attention alerted William to my meddling – he conducted a brief examination whilst my husband sat in stony silence. Dr. Bernstein listened to his heart and lungs and digestive organs, felt his pulses and pronounced him as suffering from a bout of the dyspepsia which so frequently tormented him.

Bicarbonate of soda foaming in a glass, stirred vigorously into good clean water from an artesian well safely removed from the city, followed by ginger and peppermint tea sipped throughout what remained of the day, were his prescriptions.

The doctor offered William laudanum – Fred was already drowsing from his own intake – and of course my darling refused. He told me once that he saw no virtue in forbearance, and took no pride in tolerating discomfort. He strongly disapproved of laudanum, generally considered so benign that anyone could purchase it for pennies,  even more of opium, smoked as black tar in special pipes or even dissolved and injected. Caroline had become addicted to the soporific effect, until nothing much roused her except the need for another dose.

"So this is your idea of relinquishing control and allowing me to make all of our arrangements and decisions?" William asked, as soon as the doctor had withdrawn. He did not look angry, but then he so seldom did, only smirking with that one thick brow raised.

"This is my idea of behaving as an ordinary woman and wife," I told him firmly.

He did not argue or tease, which told me if his pallor had not that my decision to act was the right one.  Baines was hovering and I gave him my place, knowing that he would undress his master and get him into bed, indifferent to any resistance.

"Adine and I are going out," I announced.

"Take Billy," was all William said as he curled up on his side, looking miserable.

We returned when the sun had already set. Fortunately, our house was in a decent part of town, far from the tavern district. We carried our own wrapped packages, a novel experience with no footman or equerry to assist. Billy refused, only pointing out he would be little use if his hands were filled with female gewgaws.

I was washed and dressed in a loose dressing gown and slippers, and after confirming that Baines and Skerrett would be fed in the servants' hall, rang for our supper. William scowled over the clear saffron-hued broth, without even the vegetables simmered to add nutrients. A single slice of bread, and more of the clean water, were his supper, and mine too, in solidarity.

While he drank his soup and tore off pieces of good yeasty bread I showed off the bargains we'd found. _Cashmere – feel it – so soft, made only in a village not far from here._ I'd overbought, unable to resist the gentle pastels, shawls and collars and jumpers for the children.

"We are fortunate to have an able-bodied male. Fred and I are useless to keep our own wives safe."

It was so unlike William, that note of self-pity. I attributed it to no more than his nausea and indigestion.

"Pshaw," I replied lightly. "Billy _works_ for us – for you – so if he protects us it is his job to do so. _You_ are my husband, my darling Lord M. No soldier can perform that role."

I watched his expression shift into a more agreeable one, but his eyes stayed….sad.

"This won't do, Lord M. I knew I was _safe_ with you, the moment I met you. Finally safe, to be myself, to be all I am capable of being. I knew I could only ever have that feeling of security with you."

I arranged the cushions more comfortably behind his back, then lifted his arm and put it over my shoulder.

 _There, that' s better_ , I thought, or said – I disremember which.

"I am getting old," he murmured, his face turned away. "I _am_ old. Fred is my younger brother, and I see myself in him."

I wanted to shush him, to make him stop saying such things. I only just stopped myself in time. It is only right that he feels free to express his thoughts aloud, and it is for me to listen and try to understand. Instead of speaking I offered up a silent prayer _let me know what to say and do, to comfort him as he comforts me_ and showed him my face, so he could see the bottomless love in my heart.

"It's good that we brought Billy. His companion can stay with us, in _Venezia_ , if he thinks we require a guard. It's for the best that you explore the city with a young man at your side."

I felt tears fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks unhindered. William gently dabbed at the moisture on my face with the sleeve of his nightshirt.

"If I see Venice, I see it with you. That is the _point_. And if you don't feel up to sightseeing, or going out to receptions and balls, then we will explore the Palazzo and invite others to visit us there."

He said nothing else on the subject, only leaned his head back with his face turned to the ceiling. After a time I picked up his tortoise shell comb from the bedside table where Baines had left it and began carefully removing the snarls from his hair. My darling has such wonderful hair! It was one of the first things I admired about him, second only to his beautiful eyes and his – well, his height and broad shoulders and his whole distinguished appearance. HIs hair was thick and curly, without any thinning, more silver than dark now, a shimmery hue which complemented his complexion.

I would not, could not, permit any distance between us that evening. Neither mental – we talked long into the night – nor physical. I kept my leg drawn up and over his own, my arm clasping his waist or, when he turned over in his sleep, the expanse of his back.

One more day of rest, the doctor opined when he returned in the morning, and another night's sound sleep. He recommended avoidance of any but the cleanest water, freshly drawn from a well far from the sewers, and avoidance of red wine for both Fred's gout and William's stomach upsets. Likewise, rich foods were to be avoided – a precaution we scrupulously observed at home – for both Lamb brothers. No cakes or pastries, no red meat or sweetbreads. We know all of this, but such proscriptions confirmed my good opinion of the doctor.

♛

**Saturday the 18 th of September 1846**

There is nothing to write of the final leg of our journey. From Milan we resumed our rail journey, journeying without disruption, on a railway only recently laid down, from Milan to Treviglio to Mestre. In Mestre we were joined by George and his apprentice, who had come to Italy to execute a commission from Mr. Charles Barry. A third gentleman was with him, introduced as our Consul-General. Mr. Dawkins was well-acquainted with Fred from their shared Foreign Service experience, and known to William, so that made it all right. I dislike surprises as a matter of principle, and thought I tolerated the presence of Sir Clinton Dawkins rather well. If he were not as obsequious as one might expect of a career civil servant in the presence of his queen, I pushed away my brief fit of pique. I was _incognito_ , as I was sure he knew, so perhaps he was only playing the role assigned to him.

In Mestre we embarked on the final brief span, and what a miracle of engineering it was! Previously the lagoon was crossed by gondola, a trip of four or more hours. Over a thousand workmen had labored to build the magnificent new structure. We had been told that its 22 arches were supported by 80,000 piles driven deep into the bed of the lagoon – leave it to dear George to know the precise number of each! – and traveling at only moderate speed, we would arrive in minutes rather than hours. Our carriage had a small viewing platform, quite safe, with guardrails at waist height. We all stepped out, so that we might see Venice on the horizon.

There is nothing I can write that might do justice to the first glimpse of Venice. On a misty morning, the surface of the water was smooth as glass. All of a sudden, out of the autumnal haze, the spires and rooftops of the city seem to rise up out of the sea. Indescribably lovely, a magical sight!

 _Bella Italia, stiamo arrivando!_ My husband's soft voice sent a pleasant shiver up my spine.

 _Bellissima Venezia, per te e per me,_ I said in return, laying my hand over his where it rested at my waist. _Il mio amore, il mio cuore, la mia vita._

__

_**"Approach to Venice" by Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1844** _


	27. Chapter 27

They settled into the palazzo obtained for them by the Consul-General. Ca' Cappello was situated in the sestiere of San Polo of Venice, in a prime location overlooking the Grand Canal where it joined the smaller Rio di San Polo and Rio delle Erbe. Palazzo Barbarigo della Terrazza stood on one side, its grandeur deceptively intact. The venerable old palace had been broken up into apartments, the larger ones held in long-term lease by members of the British colony. Their other near neighbor Palazzo Grimani Marcello, stood silent and mysteriously shuttered.

Minutes became hours became days, flowing with the inexorable rhythm of the tides. Time was irrelevant and the memories they were making were saturated with a languid golden warmth. Fixed in amber, Melbourne imagined, to warm Victoria in some far-distant future.

Drifting on that invisible tide came easily to him, less so to Victoria. He watched and listened with gentle amusement at her gradual acclimation. Suddenly bereft of all external structure and organization, she haltingly attempted to create her own. That first evening she marched briskly through the Palazzo, trailed by bemused servants. They came with the house, a motley assortment, slovenly, idle and mostly drunken with only good nature to redeem them.

Victoria inspected dusty cobwebbed corners and begrimed windows, required rooms to be aired and her own linen to replace threadbare sheets. A dozen dark heads bobbed up and down…and nothing much was done. The body servants they brought with them discreetly stepped up, and Melbourne was never more appreciative of their loyalty than when he saw dresser and valet working together to make up beds with the queen's sheets.

Her visit to the kitchen, a dank unprepossessing space on a level with the adjacent canal, ratcheted up the level of her frustration. The chef only sniffed and looked down his hooked nose, pretending lack of comprehension. He considered himself a chef pâtissier, he announced, and regarded charcuterie as an alien craft. The fellow even sneered down his long nose at La Duchessa's impossible demands. Her requirements were simple and their very simplicity offensive, to _il signore_ 's pretension. He harangued in badly broken English before reverting to unintelligible Italian dialect. Victoria spoke excellent Italian, Melbourne knew; moreover, _this_ cook spoke excellent English.

Melbourne listened without comment to Victoria's report and made up his mind to have a word with the man privately. He had recognized the fellow at first glance.  The services of competent cooks were bought, sold and bartered, even staked on a roll of the dice. In point of fact, Crockford's gambling club was where he had first heard of Charles Elmé Francatelli. Wagers were placed on the new chef's odds of satisfactorily following in the footsteps of old Ude. Melbourne seemed to recall that Francatelli stayed nowhere long – first in service to the Earl of Chesterfield, and then at Chislehurst. They exchanged reminiscences, found acquaintances in common, and Melbourne left tolerably convinced that there would be no more backstairs rebellion.

With domestic affairs satisfactorily resolved Victoria applied herself to discovering _la città antica_. She rose at her usual hour while Melbourne slept on, and when he found her she was with Adine, both of their heads bent over guidebooks. He and Fred dutifully accompanied their wives on their first formal tour, beginning at the cathedral of San Marco with its gold ground mosaics and famed horses of Saint Mark-Lysippos. Melbourne remembered the sad state of the place as it was during his own Grand Tour, when the scars of Napoleon's ravages were still raw and new. Even then, when all its portable treasures had been stripped and transported to France, the overall impression of the interior had been a dazzling display of gold on ceilings and walls. Compared to that tragic epoch in the history of Venice, he thought that the procurators had done a service in restoring the ancient basilica.

They were taken out through a courtyard beyond which lay Pałaso Dogal, the Doge's Palace. Whilst the rest of the party followed the guides who stood ready, Melbourne slipped off in search of the famed library. He expected that little of interest remained – the bulk of the ancient collection had been confiscated by Vienna in the year of his birth, in payment of back taxes – and the French had ransacked what remained. A few dusty volumes caught his eye, and the septuagenarian attendant was so flattered by his interest – the man insisted on addressing him as  Principe rather than Duca _; so much for anonymity,_ Melbourne thought _–_ that the books were pressed upon him with many flowery words. He accepted the loan, resolving to return them with a substantial donation to the library's upkeep, and rejoined the rest of his party in time to see the expression on Victoria's face when they stepped out onto the square.

They dined privately that first evening, the only one for which they had not accepted one of the invitations which overflowed the silver chaser in the foyer. Listening to Victoria's animated descriptions of all they had seen, Melbourne reflected that a casual listener would assume she was deeply dissatisfied.

The grand public buildings and private palaces, so breathtaking when seen from afar, were up close decrepit, plaster falling off in chunks, marble statues defaced during successive military occupations. The poor were lazy, making no attempt to work or even beg, content to disport themselves under every arch, and the educated classes were sullen underneath the ingratiating manners they showed tourists. Worst of all was the pervasive odor, poorly drained septic systems and unwashed bodies mingling with the stench of the rotting seaweed which clung to the walls of the canals.

Melbourne knew better. Victoria was an Englishwoman born and bred, with all the practicality that implied; her German heritage enhanced those tendencies toward hard work, cleanliness and adherence to all that was proper. It was only natural that on its surface Venice should offend those sensibilities. He recognized, in her sparkling eyes and swooping syllables, in the scarcely suppressed laughter beneath her words and even a subtle softening of her expression and posture, that she was not immune to the seduction of the city, and her critiques, while legitimate, were _thoughts_ and not _feelings_.

As confirmation, when he asked her later, _are you glad that you came?_ Victoria's look of surprise told him clearly.

"Oh, yes, William!" she effused, twirling around in a touchingly girlish show of delight. "It is all so very strange, and I would not want to _live_ here, but it's rather wonderful to discover a whole new world with you!"

On their second day in residence Victoria and Adine went out alone, accompanied only by her maid and the voluptuous Grace. Not _entirely_ alone, Melbourne knew: Beaufort had espionage agents on the ground, as the French undoubtedly did, and Vienna would have their own discreet watchers, augmenting those of the Venetian chief of police. Angelo Crispi had presented himself even before they stepped down from the train, to identify himself and assure _le loro maestosità_ that it was considered in no one's interest that any difficulty befall such illustrious visitors.

As confident as he could be in her physical safety, Melbourne accepted Victoria's kiss and went back to his reading. When they returned, the sound of female chatter was punctuated by the slapping sound of many feet as a whole troop of bearers deposited packages on every surface.

"The shops close at one," Adine explained.

"'Riposo'," Victoria sang out, giggling. "Never mind, we bought such lovely things. Can you imagine, one entire shop with dresses already made? Skerrett can fit them, she assures me. Tea dresses are considered quite the thing here, entirely proper for the heat. Of course I would not go _out_ in such attire, but receiving visitors at home in a tea dress is unobjectionable."

"And this, my darling, is for you." Victoria presented Melbourne with an antique snuff box, exquisitely wrought. He flicked the opening mechanism several times, admiring the working.

"Lovely, my dear, and I shall treasure it," he said. "I don't take snuff, but this inspires me to reconsider the habit."

In his youth Melbourne had amassed a collection of these boxes, for show rather than any utilitarian value. He had always found snuff-taking a repulsive affectation, but the Prince Regent had made it acceptable. Even Brummell had not been able to counter the trend, and instead decreed the beauty of such boxes of paramount importance.

"No, silly." Right there, in front of Fred and Adine and the butler in his wrinkled, threadbare livery, Victoria sat on his legs and twined her arms around his neck. That above all told him that _Venezia_ was working its magic.

"For your lozenges. I provided Signore Francatelli with receipts for the peppermint and ginger lozenges that soothe your stomach. Since he considers himself a _pâtissier_ it should be no especial challenge to his skill."

The dresses Victoria had purchased, all of them ready to wear – so she announced, sounding amazed – were filmy gossamer things, far less substantial than conventional gowns. More than a peignoir, not nearly as structured as a walking costume, the material floated lightly over her curves without the aid of corset and petticoats.

Melbourne lounged on her chaise watching as Victoria came out wearing one, then another. He knew better than to express any opinion other than approbation, but he could not resist asking if she intended to wear these new costumes under the white-hot glare of the sun.

"I think not," she answered archly. "The only females who do are not quite ladies. One can see everything – well, _almost_ – at a glance. But I am assured that it is quite respectable to take tea with afternoon callers. I think I would not do so at home in England. But in _Venice_ -" He almost grinned when she hesitated uncertainly.

"One must do what the Venetians do, certainly. After all, what happens in Venice, stays in Venice." Melbourne finished the thought for her, feigning an exaggerated leer. She did look extremely appealing, in a thin apricot silk. While there was nothing indecent about her appearance, the softer, more natural contour seemed to invite touching, and he did just that.

♛

Their first evening engagement was a dinner at the home of Lady Charlotte Guest. Every English expatriate with a claim to respectability had been invited. Melbourne understood that to expect absolute adherence to the fiction of Victoria's identity was neither possible nor desirable. If she were to make her appearance a matter of no importance, it would deprive such people of their enjoyment of the experience. Dining with royalty was something they would remember with relish for years; to dispense with formality would be a snub to _them_ , something Victoria intuitively grasped.

Their hostess herself was a remarkable character. Melbourne and Victoria had shared what they knew of her as they dressed.

"Her birth is respectable, at least," Victoria haltingly recalled. "A daughter of the 8th Earl of Lindsey?"

"9th," Melbourne corrected. "But then she married a tradesman. An iron-monger, I believe. You made him a baron in '38."

"How curious!" Victoria exclaimed, dipping her head so that her dresser could fasten the clasp of her necklace. "One wonders why. Is she – was she very unattractive? Or touched by scandal?"

"Not that I ever heard. At least, not the sort of scandal that would require marriage to a tradesman. Perhaps she fell in love? I think she's a bluestocking. Very _political_ , and a great believer of educating the poor." Melbourne shook his head as he recalled interminable debates on that very subject on the floor of the House. Baines frowned ferociously at the interruption of his application of hot scented towels to Melbourne's freshly shaved face.

Their gondolieri took them by pairs to a pink palazzo on the Riva degli Schiavoni. Link boys lined the quay, and when Melbourne and Victoria were handed out they stepped onto a scarlet carpet that had been rolled out for their arrival. They walked under a striped canvas canopy toward a gilt double door.

While not on a par with the protocol at Windsor or Buckingham Palace, their hostess had evidently put forth a great deal of effort to make the occasion memorable. Melbourne was frankly relieved, knowing as most of the reading public did Lady Guest's republican beliefs and Chartist sympathies.

Lady Charlotte stood at the head of a receiving line assembled to greet the them. Each lady dipped into a curtsy, evidently feverishly practiced before mirrors. Some accomplished the movement with grace, even as others wobbled precariously and a few only bobbed like a housemaid.  Melbourne bowed over the hand of each, subtly assisting those who needed his support to rise.

The table was a glittering profusion of china, silver and crystal with a towering epergne at its center which effectively obscured Melbourne's line of sight to Victoria. It had been years since she looked to him for reassurance at State dinners, but their habit of exchanging speaking glances – conveying shared amusement or outrage or the tedium of endless courses – continued. He wondered what she thought of her dinner companions.

Lady Charlotte's husband, the Welsh ironmaster, was on Victoria's right hand, and their hostess's brother on her left. _Never mind_ , Melbourne told himself, _it will be all the sweeter to share our impressions later_.

The evening did not break up until past two. A black knot of gondolas lined the canal, waiting for their passengers. Melbourne settled himself against the cushions and gently encouraged Victoria to do the same. Her perfect posture – and the rigid support of stays – precluded such a relaxed pose, but she leaned heavily on the forearm she rested on his knee and he stroked her back as their gondola cut through the oily dark waters of the canal.

When their gondoliere broke the silence of the night Victoria drew herself up, startled, and Melbourne put a finger to her lips, winking to reassure her. Together they listened to the famous old song of the gondolieri. A first call proceeded from the Rialto, sounding like a rough lament, and a second answered in the same tone from a yet further distance. Their own man joined in, contributing his own response, and the melancholy dialogue was repeated at intervals until they reached their own landing.

The hairs stood up on the back of Melbourne's neck, although he could not have said why. They were still caught up in the spell while they were undressed. Neither of them spoke until maid and valet had been dismissed and they were cocooned by heavy brocade bed hangings.

"It's odd, I can't recall the melody, yet I will never forget the sound, or the way it made me feel," Victoria said in a hushed, nearly reverent tone.

"I think the same might be said of Venice itself," Melbourne mused. "It's so much more than the sum of its parts, crumbling old houses and overwrought art and a – well," he chuckled. "the lack of hygiene that you so accurately observe. It's a feeling, an emotion, the mystery and sensuality of the city, organic and pulsing…"

Victoria purred and rubbed herself against him, pressing her little nose into the pulse point in his neck. Melbourne lifted his arm, inviting her into an embrace. He stroked the length of her flank, liking the silken texture of her skin in those secret places which never saw the light of day. That thought led to another.

"Would you like to swim tomorrow? Au naturel, if we can manage it, unencumbered by those voluminous swimming dresses required in public locations? There are many secluded little inlets, islands where one may picnic and swim far from prying eyes."

"Oh, yes, please," Victoria said at once. "Alone? I mean, as alone as it's safe to be."

"Billy, I suppose. We can trust him to take himself and our gondoliere off and give you privacy. And for his sake, Grace as well. It's only right to give him something to do, and I daresay she would prove useful in a skirmish, or to drive off any trespassers. I doubt Fred will be up to swimming, although it's a damned shame. When we were boys – ah, no use in reminiscing. I will invite them of course, but – yes, as alone as we can be. Does that please you? And make up for my reluctance to traipse about the city with you and Adine?"

"Silly, darling Lord M," Victoria purred, rubbing her nose against his neck. "Of course I like your company – you always know so much about everything we see, and make it all so much more entertaining. But we don't need to be joined at the hip, and you don't need to entertain me. Perhaps it's good that we have separate interests – your books, and your own set of visitors, while I learn as much as I can about the culture and history of Venice."

Melbourne resisted laughing aloud, touched by Victoria's ever-present need to attach some virtuous rationale to everything she did. It was part of who she was, and to him, that made it sweet.

Well, _almost_ everything, he amended as she slid down under the sheets beside him. Then he sighed with pleasure at the touch of her lips.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Venice, the Bridge of Sighs: Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1840

* * *

From the canal-side windows of their rented palazzo, one could see as far as the distant islands dotting the horizon, the pink walls of San Giorgio, and downward curve of the Riva.

Victoria found the Piazza endlessly fascinating, as lively and well-populated at two in the morning as at that same hour in the afternoon. She and Adine took their lunch at Quadri most days, sipped ice coffee and fruit juices at tables under parasols in the shade of striped canvas awnings. When they were alone they browsed the shops and stalls, buying trinkets, filmy silk scarves and exquisite glass miniatures painted by a garrulous Frenchman. On the days Melbourne and Fred went with them the four spent leisurely hours watching the people pass by. Well-dressed ladies with parcels tucked under their arms and gentlemen puffing cigars, tourists like themselves, mingled Turks and black-mustachioed men in magnificent Greek costumes.

They saw the sights one must see, when on holiday in Venice. John Ruskin, Lady Guest's brother, accompanied them to see Ponte de i Sospiri, an enclosed limestone bridge that spanned the Rio di Palazzo. It was a lovely structure, so striking that they encountered several painters intent on capturing the scene from various perspectives.

Victoria had taken a liking to Ruskin. He was a tall, thin young man with piercing blue eyes that attracted the notice of men and women alike. Even Fred had commented on the fellow's undeniable charm of manner.  Melbourne was unmoved but not entirely indifferent to Ruskin's almost feminine qualities, a delicacy, and gentle affectionateness he showed so openly and an air of boyish fun that captivated the females. He was mildly amused by Ruskin's conversation, less by the fresh and penetrating things attributed to him than by the obvious effort he put into being considered clever.

Their guide explained in heavily-accented English that it had been constructed to connect the prison to the interrogation rooms of the Doge's Palace, where they were put to the question before execution. The bow-legged little man in bright red livery repeated _Beeron_ several times, waving his arms in an expansive gesture during his monologue. It took Melbourne a moment to understand.

"Ah…I think he's referring to Byron," Ruskin told Victoria. "'I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;  A palace and a prison on each hand.'" Melbourne snickered, wondering whether they would be treated to a recitation of Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage in its entirety.

"Si, si, signore, Lord _Beeron_ ," their guide exclaimed, clapping his hands with delight. 

"I've never read it," Victoria snapped, quelling the little Italian's enthusiasm with a frown that included their charming orator. "I prefer Wordsworth, don't you, Lord M?"

Ruskin took them through the Doge's Palace, beginning with close examination of the famed sculptures Fall of Man and the Drunkenness of Noah. He told them how much had changed, and what remained the same, since his first lengthy stay in Venice some years before. His impressions were not complimentary. Ruskin despised any sign of progress – gas lamps in iron posts he likened to those in Birmingham received his scorn – found the modernization horrifying.

"Ham fisted restoration and cleaning – surely you agree, Lord Melbourne? – ruin the romantic atmosphere," he said emphatically, clutching at the forelock which fell over his brow with a poetic flourish.

In more peaceful company Melbourne and Victoria, Fred and Adine visited a fine old monastery and took luncheon there, cold fowls, Parmesan cheese, Italian bread, beef, cakes, Muscat and Champagne, then spent a leisurely hour drifting gently in a gondola before taking another stroll on the opposite bank of the Grand Canal.

They went to the Opera and sat in the Royal box, by invitation of the Emperor's legate. Lorgnettes were trained on them when they entered and Melbourne found he not only did not mind, he rather enjoyed peacocking beside his lovely young wife. She had preened herself before her mirror, turning this way and that to study her silhouette. Diamonds sparkling against her décolletage and jewel-tone silks shimmered when she moved to the whispering susurrance of her petticoats.

"It feels good to dress again," Victoria said, smiling at her own appearance. Melbourne, in white tie and tails with severely starched collar points and an intricately knotted cravat, could only agree with the result. He admitted to a rather smug anticipatory pleasure, in taking his wife out to be admired.

In Venice, or anywhere on the continent where nobility congregated, a difference in age such as theirs was no great thing. Marshal Josef Radetzky, a charming septuagenarian and the Emperor's man in Venice, introduced his latest and newest mistress at the champagne supper he hosted after the opera. The young woman was surely no older than Victoria, and proudly flaunted an advanced pregnancy.

Radetzky was well known to Fred, and acquainted with Adine's father, a Viennese diplomat. He was a man of the world, a loyal servant to the Hapsburg monarchy, a Bohemian nobleman and Austrian field marshal. Melbourne was not at all concerned with the man's personal peccadilloes and only slightly concerned lest Radetzky present his mistress to the queen. He need not have worried; Count Radetzky was not so gauche. He winked at Melbourne as though reading his mind.

"Eight children with the Countess, and eight more with my dear Meregalli, but if God sends me Mignonette, who am I to refuse? The child, if it be born healthy, will be my seventeenth." Radetzky, a devout Catholic, crossed himself. He demanded Melbourne guess his age, before proudly announcing it. "I am eighty, sir, eighty and still going strong. A few more bullets in my pistol yet, eh?"

On yet another night Melbourne and Victoria were guests of honor at a dinner given by an elderly _princessa_ of the House of Savoy, who presented her grandnephew with pride. She had him announced by his family name, Vittorio Emanuele Maria Alberto Eugenio Ferdinando Tommaso di Savoia, but called him _Victor_ when he bowed before Victoria.

Victor was a strikingly handsome young man with liquid black eyes and the classical profile beloved of Renaissance sculptors. He was also, Melbourne concluded, as charming in fact as Ruskin was by reputation. He led Victoria onto the dance floor later, once, twice and then thrice. Melbourne's glance flickered towards her periodically, but he was not inclined to hover. He had no wish to play the role of possessive elderly spouse, forever seeing phantom lovers in every man who danced with his wife. He knew her heart to be true, knew also the deep vein of genuine virtue at the very center of Victoria's being. He felt a fond pride at her effervescent pleasure at such a mild flirtation. She was a pretty woman understandably flattered by the attentions of a very handsome and distinguished young man and he would not spoil it for the world.

He turned his own attention to those whose table he shared, at a slight remove from the Savoy ballroom. If freedom from the weight of expectations had encouraged Victoria's independence, it had permitted Melbourne to rediscover the simple pleasure of being entirely himself in company.

Beyond the deference etiquette demanded, those they encountered abroad _knew_ but did not particularly _care_ they were in the presence of the Queen of the United Kingdom. There was little beyond ingrained curtsies and bows to distinguish them in a city where every other person claimed relationship to one or the other of the interconnected royal families in the region. Sardinia, Milan, San Marco, Sicily, Rome and the provinces of Italy all clung to remembered glory and the prestige of their once-independent kingdoms.

Melbourne had long separated, in his own mind, the private relationship he and Victoria shared and the public performance marriage to a queen regnant demanded. When they eventually wed, it had been with his understanding that life as he'd known it was inalterably changed, and not for the better.

Melbourne knew he was long regarded as a charming eccentric, an affable cynic who found entertainment in positing sensationally indefensible arguments for the simple joy of intellectual debate. A vague whiff of scandal which had followed him for a lifetime had been almost entirely unearned and misguided, but he secretly prided himself on his reputation in some quarters as a rake and a roué. It was a more gratifying notion than the actual truth of his rather lonely existence.

As husband of the queen – he would not accept the formal title of Consort, pretending a devotion to the memory of his predecessor – his words and actions were observed and commented on, and he could no longer make some outrageous statement without it being recorded and reported in the press. In Venice, subtly encouraged by Fred and more openly by Billy Cameron, Melbourne gradually reverted to old habits, remembering the simple enjoyment of witty conversation and outré opinions delivered only for the sake of the sensation they would cause.

When Victoria left the dance floor she found him in such congenial company. He saw at once that she wished to speak with him and excused himself.

"Did you see the gentleman with whom I have been dancing?" she demanded without preamble. Melbourne saw the rosy flush on her cheeks and the faint dots of perspiration on her upper lip. He snapped his fingers to summon a waiter and took a flute of iced champagne.

"I did," he replied, waiting as she drank greedily.

"What do you know of him?"

"Not a great deal," Melbourne said slowly, summoning what little he did know of _la famiglia de savoie_. "Why do you ask? Did he do or say something to offend you?"

"Who? Victor?" Victoria appeared startled by the suggestion. "No, not at all. At least, not directly. Sir Clinton has warned me to avoid him, however. He told me that the rebellion we've heard is brewing just under the surface – all those derogatory manifestos, the ostracism of any who appear supportive of the Austrian presence – and that Victor is favored above other candidates, to be the person they will propose as king of a united Italy. He –" Victoria frowned, lowered her eyes for a moment and then raised them again to meet Melbourne's. "He said that Victor is cultivating my friendship for the sake of his ambitions, and those of the insurgents. He warned me to avoid him lest it appear that my favor indicates Britain intends to take a side."

Melbourne read the distress in her eyes, and behind it her wounded vanity.

"Bugger that!" he spluttered. "Sir Clinton is seeing robbers under the bed, like an old maid. You are a pretty woman who danced with an attractive young man. If the insurgents behind him – if there _are_ any – believe that dancing with you at a social event can sway the policies of our government, their rebellion won't get far."

He knew he had said the right thing when a light reappeared in her eyes.

"You – you truly believe that?"

"I do," Melbourne said firmly.

"And you're not jealous? That I danced with Victor several times in a row?"

"Should I be?" he felt his lips twitch, wanting to smile. Wanting more than that, to kiss her mouth, so temptingly close.

"No!" Victoria said stoutly. "Well…perhaps a _very_ little. Only because it shows me you want me all to yourself."

"Then yes, I am a very little bit jealous. My darling, it pleases me to see you enjoying yourself, and gives me the right to boast if that _Apollo_ finds my wife worthy of admiration."

They parted on the best of terms, but only a short while later Victoria found him again. She had the Savoy princeling with her.

"Thank you for the company of _la duchessa_ , _Signore_ ," he told Melbourne, his dark gaze frank and open. "I wanted to return her to your side. Zia has called me to attend her. Perhaps when I come to London we can dance again, _Signora_ Melbourne."

♛

All sights of note having been duly toured, their days became as leisurely and unstructured as the nights were filled by social engagements. Victoria lay abed longer and they made love in the morning, in full daylight, on several momentous occasions. On those days the September weather was both hot and almost unbearably muggy, the inhabitants of  Ca' Cappello adopted the Italian custom of a midday rest. Victoria and Melbourne would lay together on the canopied bed, hoping to capture whatever breeze found its way through their floor-to-ceiling French doors. Seeking no more than comfort and relaxation, Melbourne would idly stroke her and she him, exploring each other as though for the first time, with no goal in mind except the pleasure of innocent touch.

After several overcast days in a row, the first clear morning signaled an opportunity for the promised excursion to a nearby island. Billy and Grace, with a barefoot page in tow, found a man with a rowboat big enough to accommodate them all. Billy had chosen well, and Melbourne told him as much when he sent them to the other side of the tiny sandbar. Victoria stepped out of her frock and into the crystal-clear water. Melbourne began by rolling up the legs of his trousers, but soon gave in to the remembered sensation of immersing himself fully in water. He dove in naked and Victoria squealed when he went beneath the surface. Then he surfaced and floated on his back while Victoria practiced her kicks and strokes under his watchful gaze.

The sun was low when Billy came for them. He tossed their basket and blankets in the boat and offered Melbourne an arm to steady him. Victoria, dressed again in a loose plain cotton frock, lifted her skirts and prepared to wade to the waiting craft but Cameron picked her up bodily and deposited her on the cushions beside Melbourne.

They were rowed toward the quay, into a sunset which set the whole lagoon ablaze with amethyst and topaz. Melbourne was struck by the unearthly beauty all around them, a twilight world of cloudless sky and waveless sea, all made of warm liquid, limpid heliotrope and violet and lavender, with bands of burnished copper set with emeralds. It was all so vivid, brighter than seemed possible, as if the world stood still just to give them this show. Victoria felt it too, he knew; her mouth was parted and her eyes unblinking as she took it all in.

"I have never seen anything so beautiful!" she told him in a hushed tone filled with awe.

"Neither have I. Nature, or the Almighty, gives this to us."

"I will never forget, William. _Never!_ As long as I live I will remember the beauty all around us, and what it feels like to see it with you."

It _was_ a spiritual interlude, Melbourne acknowledged, as little taste as he had for such things in general. But what else to call it?

 _Harrummph_! Billy cleared his throat and spat, a gift from the little cigarillos he smoked. Then he yawned, stretched and scratched himself.

"I'll be out tonight, and don't expect to return," he announced. "Guido here has told me about a tavern with the sweetest little – well, I'll get you back and then I'm off."

When they were returned to their own palazzo Cameron disappeared with an insouciant little wave and Victoria immediately turned to Melbourne.

"We are quite alone tonight," she said thoughtfully. "Fred and Adine dine with some friends from Vienna."

Victoria disappeared into her dressing room while Melbourne, intending to read, instead fell asleep in his chair. Full dark had descended when he awoke, bleary-eyed.

"Shall we have an early night?" Victoria asked him tenderly. Her hand softly brushed the hair from his forehead.

He saw that she had dressed with care, in a rose-silk gown that would not have been out of place in the drawing room at Windsor Castle. Her brown hair had been washed with the sweet-smelling shampoo she favored, brushed dry and fastened in a low chignon. Melbourne knew that he would disappoint her if he declared he was ready to retire.

"Not yet," he protested half-heartedly. Victoria's lips twisted into a wry, understanding smile.

"Eat something and let's sit on the balcony for a time. I have no energy for anything more."

The recalcitrant cook had found a renewed interest in primitive methods, it seemed. He was on a flagstone terrace two stories below them, grilling fish on a charcoal brazier. He unapologetically sent his regrets; he had not been told that an evening meal would be required, so had only prepared a simple repast. There was plenty to share, he added as if daring them to accept.

A barefooted scullery maid delivered grilled sunfish and a green salad, along with an iced bottle of champagne and half a loaf of bread.

Victoria served them both, inexpertly piling their plates with pieces of fish and salad. Melbourne decanted the wine into two glasses. When they'd eaten, he took her hand and walked out onto the balcony. They sat together in old wrought iron chairs, hands linked, looking out over the canal and the city beyond.

"It's so very _quiet_ in Venice. One doesn't notice at first, but it is. No carriages, no hackney cabs, only gondolas and church bells."

Just as she commented on the pervasive silence, it was broken by the sound of a violin. From just up the waterway, Melbourne thought. He stood and went to look out over the rail, beckoning for Victoria to join him.

A small flotilla of gondolas cruised along Venice's back canals to the accompaniment of guitars, an accordion and the violin whose strains pierced the quiet with a melancholy tune.

It was a hackneyed routine, Melbourne knew, a performance for well-heeled visitors. But for now, it was the perfect conclusion to their day. He laid one hand at Victoria's waist, held the other out with her palm pressing against his and on the narrow balcony they danced to the music of the gondolieri.

One song ended and another began, and still he moved with her under the Venetian moon and stars. His senses were swimming with the scent of her hair and the feel of her back under his hand. The night was perfumed with flowers and the water, and it might have been music he heard or just a ringing in his ears. Victoria moved with him effortlessly, as though they were one, and he felt intoxicated by the feeling of blissful serenity. Transcendent, sublime…right and perfect. _This is what we are and what we were always meant to be._

♛

"William…"

"Mmmm?"

Victoria was settled comfortably into her accustomed place beside him bed, her legs twined around his with cold feet tucked between his calves. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder. He blew a lock of brown hair that was tickling his nose.

"It's all been so wonderful and tonight…I can't begin to describe…for us to be here, away from everything and everyone…just William and Victoria…"

"But," he prompted, hearing the hesitancy in her voice.

"Not 'but'…but I think I am ready to go home now," she finished in a rush. Melbourne nearly chuckled aloud, but instead his shoulders only briefly shook with suppressed laughter.

"Then we shall go home, my girl. Your wish is my command." He meant it when he said it, and was surprised by a brief pang of something like regret. _Surely not_? He questioned himself, probing his thoughts for the reason.

He thought of holding his children in his arms again and felt the sharp, hungry pain of longing; pictured the changing colors of autumn at Brocket Hall and leaves crunching under horses hooves on Rotten Row. Why should any of that cause even the briefest melancholy?

He thought he knew. Here, they were, as she'd said, only William and Victoria, and there was no sense of something other, a life not lived and a path not taken. There were no memories of a time before her, and no dreamscape vision of a life _without her._ In this foreign place, there was nothing but them and the marvels, inconveniences, discomforts and experiences they shared together.

"I miss the children," Victoria said, her voice slurry with the onset of sleep. "And I do miss working. I think I'm not cut out for a life of leisure."

Melbourne turned slightly, curving his body around her smaller form protectively.

"Yes, my precious girl, it's time we go home."

 


	29. Chapter 29

****

**Saturday 10 October 1846**

When Victoria opened her eyes that morning she saw only familiar outlines in the blue velvet darkness and remembered. She felt muscle and sinew liquid with the absolute absence of tension. She inhaled deeply, smelling good country air wafting in through casement windows left open a crack. She felt chill of autumn on the tip of her nose, and it made the warmth of limbs covered by a goose down coverlet even cozier.

No maid came to unlatch shutters and draw back draperies, no second footman to set a tray containing tea, toast and the morning's papers outside of her door. The day was hers to do as she wished – well, not entirely, Victoria corrected herself, recalling the schedule to which she intended to adhere. Even on weekends she would note in her journal those tasks she hoped to accomplish, then check them off at day's end. Laying in the darkness, Victoria heard distant sounds of the house coming alive – the _chink_ of crockery followed by a gruff word which was probably an expletive, the soft patter of housemaids scurrying about to ready the public rooms for later occupancy, the strange-yet-familiar sound of a rooster rousing his harem. She imagined she could smell Lord M's morning coffee brewing and most definitely detected the mouth-watering aroma of baking bread.

In London, and most definitely at Windsor, the sights and sounds of such homely detail were swallowed up in the sheer volume of space. Here, at Brocket Hall, the rooms were made for living and one felt a part of everything which made the house a home. Here, she could be only Lady M – after all this time, thinking of herself thus still made her smile – and if she was hesitant when approached by the housekeeper, seeking approval of some change or other, the right to make those decisions as lady of the manor made her feel quite powerful, more so than signing off on yet another governmental decree.

They had returned exactly one week prior, and to Victoria's surprise re-entering her old life, her _real_ life, had initially felt as alien as the exoticism of Venice once had. Predictably, mountains of paper awaited her attention, but her mother had done a creditable job as Regent. Of course, she had done little more than listen and defer – listen to the rote reports of ministers who generally begrudged Crown oversight and were pleased enough to make their weekly audience brief and succinct.

The Duchess had accepted Lehzen's offer of assistance, and so the Baroness sat in on every such meeting. She'd taken neat notes of everything that transpired, and Victoria had found these did a good job of augmenting the official record.

Victoria's request for funds to add on to Buckingham Palace had been approved with the provision that these expenditures to be defrayed by the sale of the Royal Pavilion. Mr. Borthwick had asked for a Select Committee of Inquiry to examine the Poor Laws, and Lord Russell "recommended" appointing such a committee. They required the queen's permission to proceed, but of course that was only a formality. If the House wanted a committee, they would have a committee. Lord Russell's handwritten addendum suggested beseeching Lord Melbourne to sit on said committee as Crown representative, to show that they had the support of the Queen.

On and on it had gone. Victoria had felt her new resolve weaken on several occasions, when the thought of unread reports, unresolved issues and unsigned documents looming threatened to disturb her peace. It felt _wrong_ to leave any work undone, to walk away whilst there were still tasks which required her attention.

On their trip back to England Victoria had codified a plan to strictly apportion every hour of every day. It was based mostly but not entirely on homesickness; another part of her, applying logic to inchoate longing, told the rest of the story. She had mentally divided the hours of each day into duty, work and pleasure. For Victoria, time spent with her children, her mother, her aging relatives, especially Adelaide, who had shown her such warmth and kindness in her childhood, and even the pets all fell into the category of  'duty.' William, only William, occupied her mind, her heart and her thoughts all day, every day, and time spent with him was the pleasure she earned.

Victoria decided, prompted by new insight, that the vague ever-present sense of guilt which whispered in her ear when she thought of her mother and, even more, of her children was in fact telling her something. She freely admitted not being a natural mother and when she set aside old grievances, could acknowledge that she was not an especially kind daughter.

William's grey eyes had been kind and warm as he listened to her revelatory admissions. He had been understanding and, Victoria thought, even approving.

"I can do better and I will, my darling. You have given me two wonderful children, and an hour a day is not nearly enough. They come to us before dinner, dressed and starched, and recite their lessons. I hear their prayers at bedtime as often as I can. You are a marvelous father – it all comes so naturally to you – but I do _love them_ , William, and I want to do better. I want to be a better mother and daughter and person."

Of course he had said everything reassuring, telling her over and over that she was a wonderful person, that their children understood they were loved and her mother – well, her mother simply _understood_.

"But I am unkind to her, William. Or at least, I am not _kind_. I do love Mama, and she is not getting any younger. I want to let go of the past and _show_ her that I love her, for herself and for all she has done for me."

"Then that is what you will do," he had answered firmly. Dearest darling Lord M, Victoria thought, he has so much more faith in me than I have in myself. And he's always seen the best in me. That's why I want to _do_ better and _be_ better.

"Will you help me?" she had persisted. "Look, I've made a schedule. _These_ are the hours I will spend on work, and _these_ are the hours I will spend with my family. _You_ are paramount, you will always come first, and together we can strike a better balance in my life."

Of course he had understood what she _wasn't_ saying. That she wanted him to become yet more actively involved, to receive her ministers – some of them – on her behalf, to free her to less time on tedious business. He was the wisest of counselors, the best of men, universally liked and respected, but he was overly cautious about even the appearance of unduly influencing her and exercising power on her behalf. The idea of being thought grasping, or avaricious, or calculating in his courtship and marriage, was anathema to Lord M. And, Victoria dimly sensed, wincing at the notion, he might even imagine that someone could consider his entire early mentorship of a young queen shrewdly Machiavellian rather than the gift to a nation that it had been.

In the darkness now become pale pearly gray Victoria slid her foot across the sheets and found his hairy calves. She squirmed her toes in between and rolled onto her side so that her breasts flattened against his broad back. _Were they fuller? Were the nipples more sensitive_? Her fingers traveled downward, coming to rest at her waist, pressing gently. _Was that a new firmness? Was it possible -_ -?

♛

The children came tumbling into bed, waking both parents with poking, prodding and bickering chatter. Victoria pushed the hair from her eyes and resisted the initial urge to rebuke. _What would William do?_ was her guide, in this effort to become a better, more affectionate parent. What William _did_ was to gently dislodge Victoria and push himself up to a seated position. Victoria followed suit and began to interpret their words – _why did small children seem to speak a foreign tongue?_

They were asking to go to market with Mrs. Epson, the undercook who lived on a nearby farm. They were both dressed in their country clothes, Liam in a homespun linen shirt and thick wool short pants. Lily's smocked dress had seen better days, and her coarse knitted jumper was clearly an amateur effort by some country goodwife. Both children wore heavy ankle boots, the better to muck about in the kitchen yard. Going out to retrieve eggs for their breakfast was one of the highlights of a stay at Brocket Hall.

"I will go with you," Victoria said, pretending enthusiasm she did not quite feel. Both children cheered at the suggestion. "If you go and tell Mrs. Epson, that is."

"To the farm market?" Melbourne asked dubiously, evidently disbelieving her intent.

"Why yes," she told him firmly.

"It's only a few stands in the village, whatever extra produce the local farmers have on hand. Usually a tinker or two, and perhaps some baked goods from the vicar's wife…are you sure you want to? It'll be a walk."

Victoria wanted to respond _of course I don't want to_ , but thought better of it. Autumn in Hertfordshire was like Hyde Park, only better. All ablaze with color, the crunching of leaves underfoot, and without the stench of the Thames or the smelters and docks if the wind blew wrongly. Of course there might be the stench from the Smithron's pigs, or a fall spread of manure to nourish the fallow ground over winter –

"Then I will accompany you. I can't think of a better way to spend the morning."

She knew that he had myriad other duties of his own, as mostly-absentee landowner. He came out often enough that he could usually attend to those matters which most urgently required his attention. Most often that need took the form of a draft on his bank to cover tenants' roofs, reinforcement of fencing which had fallen or some barn which had deteriorated beyond hope of redemption. The Hall itself was in better repair than it had been for a long time, thanks in part to the infusion of cash which Victoria insisted on contributing.

"It is _our_ home, William – you've told me so many, many times. Why should I not be permitted to contribute to its upkeep? Are you afraid I will try to change something?" As she'd known it would, that argument prevailed, especially when augmented by a wounded pout. Now the roof was new, the windows freshly glazed, rooms repainted and the magnificent ceiling murals in the Grand Saloon restored to its original glory.

_Paulsen_ was the name of the detective who had accompanied them to the Hall. He had come with the female agent assigned to the children. Billy Cameron's squad had merged without excess difficulty, with Bedford's foreign intelligence service. The Duke was tolerant of Billy's unique management style, recognizing both devotion and expertise.

Mr. Paulsen, unshaven and in an old brown barn coat, looked the part of a rural farmer. He walked complacently beside Mrs. Epson, even carrying her basket, and Victoria and Melbourne followed behind. One of the dogs at the Hall, a droopy-eared hound, appointed himself their guardian. Little Deckel trotted next to his country cousin, four short legs pumping comically to keep pace.

The market was just as Melbourne had described, wagons set up in a row behind tables and bushels full to overflowing with the bounty of autumn. The children exclaimed with delight at everything they saw, oohing and ahhing over cabbages and potatoes and bright orange carrots with their greens still attached. Victoria laughingly accepted the shiny red apple that Melbourne polished smooth against his lapel.

"Eat it here?" she had asked wonderingly. Melbourne had peeled it with a pen knife, the red skin uncoiling under his blade. Then he fed her thin slices one at a time.

"Mama, look!" Lily was bent over a covered basket, hands on her chubby knees. Victoria crouched down beside her and saw a litter of impossibly tiny kittens working busily at their mother's nipples. The mother cat only yawned when she saw they were the object of admiring attention, no more impressed by the presence of royalty than the farmwives hawking their wares.

In the vicinity of Hatfield, Melbourne was well-known and liked. He considered a far better landlord and neighbor than the loftier Cecil clan. If tenants and freeholders, blacksmith and cooper, vicar and schoolmaster and the stout widow who ran the public house, all greeted Victoria in a friendly manner, she understood it was a reflection of their regard for her husband. These stalwart country folk were all ardent royalists, but they separated village pride in Lord Melbourne's exalted new rank from the day-to-day reality of their existence. "The Queen" could do them neither good nor harm, far away in London-town. Lord Melbourne's employment of fathers and sons, wives and daughters on his estate, the fair wage he paid and his liberality in coming to the aid of any who sought relief from some unexpected burden, those were the things which mattered to these good people. And on his behalf, they welcomed his wife.

One table was covered in fine-work, lace collars and cuffs to decorate Sunday-best dresses. Another stall sold worked leather, pocketbooks and belts. Yet another fronted a display of smoked pork, suspended on hooks from the back of a covered wagon. He was a near neighbor of the Hall, Victoria knew, and as little as she cared to imagine the darling baby pigs who had this in their future, the sides of bacon and ham smelled wonderfully.

Mrs. Epson's oldest girl proudly displayed baked goods, cakes and biscuits and small round rolls that could be filled with meat and cheese. Victoria approved of the children's choices and looked to their detective to count out the necessary payment.

"Milord!" A breathless, rotund woman in soiled apron approached, carrying a steaming covered kettle. Behind her a shy adolescent boy unwrapped white linen napkins and took out chipped cups.

"I put up a big pot of soup, just the thing for a day like this," she explained when she'd caught her breath. "I saw you had the little'uns with you and thought they might be feeling peckish."

Victoria wrongfully doubted their capacity; Lily and Liam both accepted soup, on top of the apples and raisins and sweet rolls they had already consumed. She herself was less enthusiastic about the prospect of dining on her feet, standing in the center of the village green. Melbourne genially spooned up a large mouthful of meat and broth, praised it highly and led its bearer away. Before he returned, Victoria ventured further, towards a cluster of canvas tents.

"Damned dirty Irish," a man said behind her. "Begging your pardon, milady."

"Stole those tents, I reckon. From the regiment," another joined in.

Victoria knew better than that, at least. There was little enough relief available to those displaced Irish tenant farmers who had managed to cross the water and arrive on inhospitable shores. She knew that a certain number of military tents had been surreptitiously donated to one group of economic refugees, along with worn boots and outmoded greatcoats and even pots and pans that had made their way back from field units abroad. It would all rot away in warehouses, or be pilfered by greedy opportunists seeing a resale value.

She felt a reassuring presence behind her and knew only William would dare stand so close.

"Can't we do anything for them?" Victoria murmured, not wanting to attract attention.

"Not without running the risk of incurring resentment on their behalf," he told her. Then, "At least, not openly. I think I heard that a few of my tenants are short of men to help with harvest. And from what I'm told, there are several lengths of fencing to replace, between Brocket home land and the sheep pasture to our west."

Victoria watched Melbourne speak at length to Mr. Paulsen, who then disappeared in the direction of the _Spotted Cow_. She said no more, confident that Lord M had found a means of aiding the gaunt, hollow-eyed Irishmen camped in Hatfield Common.

♛

The day passed quickly, too quickly for Victoria. She diligently observed as Brocket's head housekeeper unlocked the linen closet and performed an inventory for her benefit. She nodded respectfully when the butler took her into the silver room and listened to his exhaustive explanation of a missing tureen. She walked through the kitchen garden and admired a row of peas, commending the gardener's skill in achieving such late growth of a spring vegetable. She visited the Conservatory with Melbourne, inhaling appreciatively the heady fragrance of towering citrus and choosing the flowers for their dinner table. _And one for you, ma'am,_ he said playfully, twisting the stem of a begonia into her hair.

Victoria dressed for dinner in the privacy of her own dressing room. Melbourne had washed and shaved earlier, pleading a need to have a private word with his property agent.

"Let me see you," she had demanded, making a minute adjustment to his neck cloth and brushing non-existent lint from the front of his coat.

"You are the most attractive man!" she had exclaimed, knowing that any words were superfluous.

Lord M always said he could read her thoughts on her face. But he _was_ , and she sometimes felt she might burst if she did not tell him. Long legs – he was taller than average – and straight back, just the right amount of girth to make her feel safe and sheltered in his arms. And his features, those wonderful features, wide expressive eyes and Roman nose and exquisite lips…

"Now go, so I might dress myself well enough to deserve you," Victoria teased, shooing him out. As soon as he had left she turned to her patiently waiting maid.

"Did you let out the seams on the blue damask?" she asked.

"Only took a little," Skerrett said reassuringly. "Everyone puts on a bit of weight when they travel. All that rich food and such. Every good dresser travels with a sewing kit just for that reason. Some even have to bring extra _fabric_ for their ladies. Now suck in your breath and I'll pull your stays as tight as I can."

"No!" Victoria said sharply. "I mean, not excessively tight. I don't want to be uncomfortable and if I'm laced too tight I sit up straight as a poker. It should be fine if you let out the waist in my gown."

* * *

 


	30. Chapter 30

The weather was changeable, warm, close and clammy, then chilled by sudden gusts. As though October would resist advancing autumn and cling to summer as long as it could, Melbourne thought. He had chosen to travel the mile from Westminster to Cambridge House on foot, through a misty precipitation that was not quite rain, yet more substantial than fog. He paused long enough to blot moisture from his face with a silk pocket square and smooth his unruly curls into some semblance of order. The two men flanking him - _detectives_ , they had begun calling themselves since they rotated duty between personally guarding the sovereign and ferreting out malcontents and agitators – had struggled to keep pace all along Birdcage Walk. The realization made him feel smug; Melbourne estimated neither fellow had yet seen his thirtieth birthday. The exercise had been invigorating, improving his already ebullient mood.

It felt good to be out and about, after lengthy confinement in the palace. True to her new resolution, Victoria had delegated a substantial number of meetings. Melbourne refused to use _audience_ , wincing inwardly at the pretention such a term implied.  Working separately, they dealt with twice the volume of Crown business, and Victoria was able to end her day precisely at five o'clock. It was a delicate dance around a very fine line, to represent the queen and act in her name without appearing to usurp her authority. That Victoria was willing to delegate that authority was, Melbourne understood, a measure of her faith that he would use it judiciously.

Acting for the Crown, receiving ministers and petitioners, Melbourne necessarily exercised the quasi-royal prerogative of requiring them to attend him in his palace office. He had her stamp and her seal, and her mandate to write _VR_ beside his own scrawled signature; he had _her_ , in proximity; and he even had the children. Victoria had informed their governess and tutor that from two o'clock to four, lessons would stop so that Liam and Lily could join one or the other of their parents, no matter what great personage might be present or how weighty the matter under discussion.

Melbourne was pleased enough to shoulder some of the burden Victoria carried, and scrupulous to maintain her autonomy when he acted on her behalf. _I will look into this and consult Her Majesty; we will see what can be done_ were often repeated. If not entirely satisfactory, most of those who sought patronage or favor were content with his careful hearing of the cases they pled, the insightful questions he put to them and Melbourne's genial lack of formality. He had overheard one man say to another, thinking himself out of earshot – _whatever Melbourne says, the queen will do. We need only persuade him to have them both in our pocket._

Melbourne knew himself well enough to accept that, no matter how well-earned his reputation for nonchalance, even laziness, he thrived on intellectual stimulation and needed the stimulation that the new work provided, to ward off ennui. He relished the busyness, and the feeling of accomplishment at the close of each full day, and it touched him as always that Victoria knew him as well as he knew himself.

As efficient as their new system was, after several consecutive days within palace walls Melbourne felt restless. When an invitation was dropped on his desk bearing the Viscount Palmerston's seal, he dashed off his acceptance and sent it back with a courier headed to Downing Street.

_Lord Melbourne will be honored to dine with the Viscount Palmerston_

 

Melbourne raised his hand to use the knocker just as the door swung open before him. His sister's butler greeted him with familiar deference and handed his hat and cane to a footman just as Emily sailed forward to greet him with open arms. She admired the rouge mark left by her kiss and showed him a saucy grin which did not quite disguise her admiration.

"William, I vow you are aging in reverse! Whatever you're doing, I must try for myself."

"I think you already have the recipe, Em," Melbourne smirked, ducking to avoid the playful slap she feigned. Emily made a little moue to signify her distaste.

"You'll tell me next it's love that keeps you young. Unless you're emulating the Countess Báthory I will dispute you. And _your_ little queen is not quite young herself – in years, she is, of course, but she seems quite staid and _convenable_. Oh don't frown at me so, I do not criticize. Only, she is so very _sérieuse_."

Melbourne decided against spoiling his good mood by reopening the old argument. Sisters and wives were at perpetual odds, an inevitable consequence of being loved dearly by two women. Emily did a better job than most of her contemporaries at concealing her opinion. Victoria was painfully aware that her own nobility considered her boringly respectable, even dowdy.

"You have no idea what you are talking about, Em, so button it. Now be a good girl and show me to your husband."

He watched her fondly, seeing the irrepressible tomboy she had been in the elegant middle-aged woman.

"I'm off to dine with Dorothea Lieven," she said gaily, turning her face up to her husband's. Palmerston kissed her and patted her backside through yards of fabric and flounces. "William, you will procure her an invitation to dine at Court."

"Is that a command? Perhaps you should call on the queen and ask her yourself," Emily's husband snapped.

Melbourne saw in the quick tightening of his ruddy open face, that his brother-in-law was less than pleased at his wife's suggestion. The Princess Lieven was mistress and trusted confidant of François Guizot, Palmerston's chief rival in all matters of England's foreign policy, and no one doubted that she was in London at her lover's behest.

"Why don't you extend our invitation to Dorothea yourself, Emily?" he suggested, winning for himself one of Emily's charming smiles. "We will send cards round tomorrow. Of course, you and Henry will attend as well. Shall we say…Saturday?"

Mollified by the inclusion, Palmerston brightened enough to give his wife a second, lingering embrace.

"That easily, William? I'm impressed. You are owning your power."

♛

Henry Temple, the Viscount Palmerston, had assembled a small group of Whig cronies. Henry Petty-Fitzmaurice, 3rd Marquess of Lansdowne sat across from George Villiers, Earl of Clarendon, President of the Board of Trade. Edward Ellice, whom Melbourne fondly referred to as the Bear, was as different in appearance from the fidgety, finnicky Charles Greville as two men could be. Spring Rice was another of Melbourne's old friends, serving in Grey's government and then his own as Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was a good man but pig-headed and dogmatic, in Melbourne's opinion, too much given to details and possessed of no broad views.

The all-male party dined well, even lavishly. Melbourne lost count after six – no, seven main courses and a dozen removes, set out in _service à la française._ He was only passingly tempted by the heavily sauced entrées, selecting only lobster patties, asparagus and an irresistible raspberry meringue drizzled with dark chocolate rum sauce. Eating heavily was an acquired skill, and one to which he had happily lost the knack.

He did not abstain when the table was cleared and Palmerston proudly displayed his latest acquisition, a Pierre Ferrand cognac.

"1779," he chortled, holding a bottle up to be admired by his guests. "For you, brother, bottled in the year of your birth. A whole case of this. Gentlemen, you must tell me what you think of my coup."

"So not everything French raises your ire?" Melbourne quipped, holding out his glass. He held the thick amber liquid – just the color of honey, he thought – to the light.

For a while the talk turned to vintages, and a mild debate ensued. The air grew so blue with cigar smoke Melbourne resisted an urge to fan it away. He loathed the smell of burning tobacco, and the foul odor it left on the clothing of even innocent bystanders. He especially did not want to return to Victoria reeking of the stuff. Even so mild a thought made his face soften in reverie, seeing her in his mind's eye soft, pink-and-white and glowing with good health.

"Emily was right, old man," Palmerston said suddenly, leaning over Ellice to address him sotto voce. "You're looking mighty cock-of-the-walk. Is it only because you now reign as co-equals? Will she try to have you crowned this term or next?"

"Don't be tedious, Henry," Melbourne drawled. "It doesn't become you. Or is that spite I hear?"

"Your little queen gave me a rare dressing down," Palmerston growled. He pushed back from the table and stretched out his long legs, studying the glowing red tip of his cigarillo.

"I was in town today. I know nothing of it. You'll have to enlighten me."

"She – she accused me of _meddling_. She believes everything said against me, and takes my word for nothing."

"Oh, my God, I thought the matter was settled. The Spanish Queen will have her cousin. What have you done now?"

"What am I accused of, you mean? My only wish is to avoid the balance of power in Europe being upset. I was told not to meddle, so I forbore out of an abundance of respect for Her Majesty. But Louis-Philippe talks out of both sides of his mouth, yet Victoria is determined to believe every calumny against me. She suspects me unjustly of conspiring with her uncle, only because her cousin Leo seemed to be the only viable candidate. The cousin is as incapable of fathering children as – well, suffice it to say, she has no capable adviser at hand to console her in the event her marriage is not consummated."

"Inclination and ability are two separate issues, Henry. I'm certain Isabela's consort will rise to the occasion, so to speak."

"Oh, damn it all, it just doesn't sit well, to be scolded by  your wife for doing my duty and looking out for our interests in Europe. She trusts the damned French more than her own ministers _or_ her own uncle. What's the source of that bad blood?"

"Leopold has meddled once too often in our – in English business, Henry. He forgets Victoria is a queen and not only his fatherless niece. As for Stockmar- you'd do best to avoid that man completely. He's a snake. Did you invite me only to put me on the defensive? Her Majesty is quite able to argue her own case. And to remind her ministers what's owed the sovereign."

"Don't I know it," Palmerston said moodily, but Melbourne saw the storm had passed. His brother-in-law was a maverick Foreign Secretary and had never heard of a revolution he didn't like but he was also a loyalist and reserved his ultra-liberal sentiments for the other side of the channel.

Palmerston turned his attention to his other guests, Lansdowne, Ellice, Clarendon, Greville and Spring Rice. Melbourne, relieved, accepted more of the cognac and sipped thoughtfully.

They left the table, and cards were produced. Melbourne played as any gentleman did, but had little passion for gambling. He quickly grew bored and was relieved when he could lay down his hand. Ellice took his place, playing with Clarendon against Palmerston and Lansdowne while Melbourne joined Spring Rice.

"Nearly cold enough for a fire tonight," he observed when a sudden cold draft came down the chimney.

♛

 _"_ And I said to Rice, _'Don't blame it on Galileo. Start about 300 years earlier with Ibn Rushd, otherwise known as Averroes…'_ You can imagine his response to that, my love. He asked if I cared to elaborate. I seem to recall, vaguely, encountering an argument once to the effect that St. Thomas was fed corrupted versions of Aristotle...was it there that I encountered the name Averroes?"

Victoria inclined her head with a pretty show of interest. "And what did he say? Did he accept your opinion?"

 _"'_ He conceded the possibility. I could do no less, admitting that the fellow had felt himself threatened, maybe even silenced, by the rising tide of orthodoxy coming from eastern Islam. But Averroes' thinking survived in the universities that were just beginning to be established in Europe. There, it laid the groundwork for the rise of science while most of the Islamic world lapsed into orthodoxy."

All the warmth of the day had fled, and the night air was cold. A heavy rain fell, relentless, and Melbourne had been grateful for the protection of a shabby hackney cab, the best his detective could find at a quarter past midnight. The palace was dark, or nearly so, with only gas-fueled wall sconces illuminating the broad corridors. The guardsman in dress uniform at the top of the Grand Stairway had been a freckled Yorkshire boy whose face was familiar and Melbourne greeted him warmly. A hall page drowsed outside their apartment, blinking sleep from his eyes as he held open the door.

Victoria had been in bed, but awake and reading. _Dombey and Son_ was Mr. Dickens' newest story, published only in installments. He had sent a galley proof of the entire work to the queen with his compliments. She wrinkled her little nose, sniffing, when he bent to kiss her.

"I'll change and return," Melbourne promised. He hummed to himself while he unknotted his cravat, kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt off so that he could wash away the tobacco fumes that had permeated his clothing. Baines sniffed disapprovingly, making Melbourne laugh out loud.

"Whether Averroes passed on corrupted versions of Aristotle to Aquinas is a matter open to debate," Melbourne explained, feeling foolish for spending precious moments alone with a beautiful, nearly naked woman recounting the obscure philosophical arguments with his old friend. 

Victoria had closed her book and laid it aside, and listened to him carefully. He liked nothing better than to talk to her. She listened with rapt attention, only rarely interrupted with tedious questions, and gave every indication of interest.

"My guess is that translation issues were always a problem. Aquinas's work trying to align Aristotle with Scripture is still the heart of Papist doctrine." Victoria's big blue eyes were gentle, her lips parted slightly. She had had the benefit of a first-rate education, personally tutored by masters in their fields, and yet Melbourne heard the faint echo of his own thoughts in her halting speech. 

"How I do go on," he exclaimed, grinning sheepishly. "I meant only to explain why I am so late. It's an old argument of ours, and an interest few share. I don't even know whether _we_ understand, but neither of us are willing to concede and so when we see each other…"

"I might not perfectly understand but I could listen to you forever, and never grow bored." Her fervent tone and shining eyes persuaded Melbourne that she meant what she said, and he loved her for it.

"It does you good to get out and see your friends," Victoria murmured, lacing her fingers through his. Melbourne looked at their two hands, his own heavily veined, gnarled with age but still strong and straight and hers, pale, soft and impossibly small. He lifted it to his lips.

"I recall once upon a time you would be quite put out if I was away from you for an evening. Do you grow weary of me, ma'am? Will you be taking a lover soon?"

"Silly man," Victoria chided firmly, drawing his hand to her own mouth and kissing it. The kiss was voluptuous, open-mouthed, and he felt the slight roughness of her tongue where it flicked his palm.

"Who did you have to dinner tonight?" Melbourne asked. He heard his own voice – casual, but was it _too_ casual? They knew each other so well…

"No one special," she answered. "Just a few members of the household, those on duty. Lehzen joined us and – oh, that reminds me."

Melbourne stilled, afraid to breath, waiting for her next words.

"The Diplomatic Ball," she said, and he exhaled. It was not what he had anticipated.

"Will Emily take the lead in planning this year? Now that Lord John is at the head of government and Henry has his Foreign Office again, it makes perfect sense."

"I think you should ask her," Melbourne replied. "She will be honored, and of course she will accept if you wish it."

"But will she want to, and be willing to work with me?" Victoria persisted.

"You are the Queen, ma'am," was the only response he could make.

Emily would be more than pleased, and do a superb job in arranging the biggest social event of the year. Every accredited diplomat would attend, each vying with the other to represent the honor and glory of their homeland. She would run roughshod over Victoria, or try, but Victoria was no longer a shy, retiring young girl.

"Did Sir Charles Locock dine with you? I met him on my way out this morning, and he asked _me_ if he would see me at dinner."

_Did she stiffen? Was that a tell, that slight twitching of the muscle beside her eye? Or only blink…?_

"He did," Victoria said, and her voice was clear and tremor-free. "He's on duty this week, as household physician. He told us of a paper he's had published, on the treatment of epilepsy. I suppose he thought you might be interested, because of your son."

Sir Charles Locock was one of the physicians who served the Royal Household. Six of them took turns, living at Court during their duty weeks. Melbourne had heard of his new treatment for epileptic seizures that had so tormented Augustus.

"Potassium bromide," he said, nodding sagely as though that had been the reason for his inquiry. _Would she say more? Had Locock examined her?_ It was the physician's other specialty that most interested Melbourne. He was an obstetrician, with Royal warrant as the _Queen's_ obstetrician-in-chief.

"Yes, that is what he called it. If you're going to be here tomorrow, you could speak to him then," Victoria said, her tone casual. "I think he would like to talk with you."

She said no more, only snuffed the bedside candle and slid herself down under the covers. Melbourne's arm raised of its own accord so that she could settle into her accustomed place. He was pleasantly weary, enervated, and felt only the sweetness of anticipation. Once he _knew_ , the worry would start, counting down hours and days, vigilant for any sign that all was not well. Just for now, while nothing was certain, he could savor the possibility without anxiety.

Melbourne yawned and turned onto his side, curving his body around hers. He fumbled in the dark, kissed her in the vicinity of her ear and whispered into soft tangled hair.

"You are my everything, Mrs. Melbourne."

"And you are mine, Lord M. All mine."


	31. Chapter 31

Muzzy-headed, grainy-eyed, the stiffness in his back added its voice to the chorus of aches and pains. Try to sit up, place feet on the floor. Topple sideways, useless as a turtle. Curse, or intend to, and pretend that the water glass and candlestick swept to the floor were the result of rage and not clumsiness. Any effort depleted meagre resources, head spinning with nauseating fatigue. Perspiration dotted his brow although the room was cool, and his respiration was rapid and shallow.

"William, you naughty, naughty boy. _Ring_ when you wake or I vow, this is the last night you sleep alone."

Emily's face unnaturally chipper, the girls wan and timid. _Or only imagination?_

"Get them out of here, pray – and take yourself with them." Try to speak, hear only a guttural sound, more like an animal growling.

Scrawny little man, sly as a weasel. Retreat within, refuse to acknowledge the indignity of strange hands providing intimate care. _Had he once said, rather a man than a woman provides sickroom care, for females fidget one so? Foolishness like so many of those flippant opinions._

"I will return when Powell has you sorted out, William. You were supposed to return to Brocket today, but I don't think you're ready."

Distance from bed to chair may as well be a thousand leagues, with one useless limb. Sit then and try not to think at all. Pick up a new book and turn its leaves over and then watch it drop from his hand Fear, anxiety, frustration, anger, sadness, and an overwhelming sense of grief, all those and more, and less as well. Damn the tears which came so easily, the melancholic ache which never left.

Em speaks easily of the news of the day, thinking only to amuse. Opens her home to a succession of visitors, hoping their presence would cheer him. Even Caroline allowed to cross the threshold, her despised presence a measure of Em's determination. It did no good, what they had was long gone and irrevocably his heart was given to another woman, she the only one in England he could not see.

All this and more, the fabric of a life, laid out before him. Not thoughts as such, simple awareness, comprehension of one's situation. Paralytic stroke, the new physician said. Sir Charles Locock, one of the finest Harley Street had to offer. Treatises in the Lancet on rehabilitation, he came full of assurances that with much effort recovery was possible. Only one cure for such unbearable pain, so struggle to pronounce the syllables. _Opium._

It allowed him to dream and in dreaming escape, return to another place and time. In the arms of Morpheus, space and time mutable, but once – hadn't there been another possibility posited? Plurality of matter, time no continuum but rather a multidimensional plateau, simultaneous creation…? The exact words danced just out of reach but the image remained, tantalizing, taunting. Chrysippus, Aristotle, later in England, Grosseteste… but _Averroes_ was the name ringing in his ears, its importance seemingly monumental.

Even as his fevered mind chased that fleeting name, one thought surpassed all others. _Life is pain._

♛

Muzzy-headed, grainy-eyed, the stiffness in his back…all washed away in the bright light of day. Take inventory quickly, stretch, yawn and rise. Chin rough with the night's growth of beard. Look down, yes, _that_ awake too, mere morning phenomenon and yet one must be grateful.

Stretch and yawn and feel the warmth of the sun streaming in through one tall window. Move quietly, or intend to, and pretend dismay when she stirred at the movement.

"Good morning, darling Lord M," her sweet voice cooed, still husky with sleep. Smile into those eyes, revel in the sweetness of that heart-shaped face, prettily flushed in a tangle of hair. Breast just the right size to fit in a hand, nipple dark against white linen.

"Why are you smiling? Did you have a good dream?"

 _Dream? What dream could be sweeter than this?_ Say it or not, taste her mouth instead, lips pliable, soft and yielding.

"Good morning, Mrs. Melbourne," the old name still their playful endearment. "I smile because I am happy. _You_ make me happy, my precious girl. I could not ask for more than I have."

♛

"You're aware, of course, that Her Maj – that your wife's natural courses are not regular. That is the primary method by which physicians make their diagnosis."

Locock wasn't a prosy fellow, at least not by the standards of his profession. Still, Melbourne rued the man's inability to talk plainly. He grimaced when Sir Charles launched into a painstaking description of a woman's cycle, how the uterus functioned and the mechanism by which such regularity was maintained. A large portfolio of excruciatingly precise anatomical drawings lay open before them. Melbourne avoided the gory illustrations, preferring not to imagine the exact method by which they were obtained.

"Yes, yes – I know as much about all that as any man needs to. I care only whether my wife is well, and will remain so."

"Of course, Lord Melbourne, of course," Locock said hurriedly. "I'm afraid I go into such detail only to explain – excuse, I suppose – my inability to be certain. However, it certainly seems from some fundamental internal changes – the feel and appearance of the cervix, I mean – "

Melbourne felt his face change color, flushing before all the blood drained away.

"I apologize again. To answer as bluntly as possible, I believe her to be with child. We'll know more within the next month or two, as she increases – or not. There should be no public announcement yet, certainly not until her condition becomes impossible to mistake. That is the same advice I would give any female in a delicate condition. The first trimester, you understand, is a precarious time."

"'Precarious'? Then there is risk to Victor – to the queen?"

"No more than to any other woman. She is in fine health, well-nourished, with no known disabilities. I refer to the fetus – to the child in her womb, if there is one. And again, I do not mean there is any _particular_ risk, except that having lost one pregnancy only last year we must be vigilant."

Satisfied he has done his duty, Melbourne thought, narrowing his eyes as he reflected on the physician's grim words.

"Oh dammit to hell, I am speaking out of an abundance of caution. It's a common failing of my profession. No obstetrician attending the queen can forget the example of Sir Richard Croft."

Croft, obstetrician in attendance on Princess Charlotte, dead by his own hand within days of his patient's sudden demise. A triple tragedy, mother, child and doctor all dead, the physician doomed by his own perceived failure.

Locock extended his hand so suddenly that Melbourne only stared, not understanding. Then he realized it as a gesture of goodwill and the weight fell from his own shoulders.

"Congratulations, Melbourne, you will be a father again." The ' _again'_ started Melbourne until he realized it was a reference to poor dead Augustus.

"I will, won't I?" he heard himself answer. _Inadequate, but what more can I say?_ "And the queen will be well? There will be no…mishaps?"

"Impossible to say, but I think we must trust in God's providence. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as they say, and there must be a corollary too. We can't go through life waiting for the next tragedy, or it will steal away all joy in what _is_. My advice to you, man to man, is celebrate your wife's news and show her you are glad."

The advice resonated, and Melbourne felt a return of the buoyant _joie de vivre_ which had filled him only yesterday.

"She knows you would tell me?" he asked, watching closely for the answer.

"She asked me to tell you," Locock said. "I suspect she feared your reaction. She knows you worry about her greatly and was reluctant to distress you if this was not happy news."

"Fear? Happy?" Melbourne knew he must look befuddled, but the words were so shocking when applied to the closeness he and Victoria shared. Had he failed to make plain his sentiments? He supposed he had, out of what the doctor had called _an abundance of caution_. Melbourne nodded, forcing himself to meet the doctor's eyes directly. "Thank you for your honesty, sir."

"If I may speak freely once more –" Locock looked for permission before continuing. "Since both you and your wife have touched upon concerns for her health – most reasonable, in light of the great role she plays in the life of our nation – a colleague of mine has begun performing a certain surgical procedure – very selectively, you understand – on gentlemen of your age and situation. It has the happy effect of rejuvenating, well, overall vigor and, er, potency, even eliminating the prostate problems which afflict men in their later years, while eliminating altogether the possibility of conception. I don't suggest – well, only to make you aware of the possibility –"

"An operation? What sort of operation? Do you mean -?" Melbourne winced, imagining.

"Yes, well, no, not what you're thinking. A small incision made in the groin area, and then the _vas deferens_ is severed, so that no viable semen is passed into ejaculate – there is some transient discomfort, as could be expected, but the results thus far have been most satisfactory. Something to think about. And now, I will leave you, sir, and bid you a good day. If I might be so bold – go find your wife, and let her see your pride and pleasure."

 _Let her see your pride_. It _was_ pride he felt, Melbourne realized, along with deep-seated happiness that almost entirely smothered the nagging concern which would not leave him until the ordeal was over. He allowed himself to visualize the moment an announcement was made in the House – Lord John would stand at the podium, and the members would dutifully cheer at news the queen was to be confined in the new year. Vindication of a sort – what a petty, unseemly emotion! – for all the muttered supposition that he was no more than a kindly father-figure whom the newly widowed queen wed for comfort and consolation. _Yes, I'm proud – to be her husband and to have gotten a child upon her_. And pleasure, and burgeoning affection for the seedling taken root in her womb. He could love no child more than he loved Liam and Lily, but there was enough love in his heart for three. And their mother, always _her_ , she would take center place for all eternity.

♛

"So you are pleased? Really, truly happy?" Victoria's voice was tremulous, her big eyes shining with unshed tears. Looking like a child facing down a grumpy headmaster, Melbourne thought, and met her gaze squarely.

"Really, truly happy," he said, his own voice vibrating with the intensity of his emotion.

They were alone in the Yellow Drawing Room, her ladies not yet present. The Household would assemble before their guests arrived. Fortuitous, Melbourne supposed, that Em and her husband were to dine, along young Emily and Shaftesbury and of course, Dorothea Lieven.

The room was redolent with the odor of fresh-cut flowers, massed chrysanthemums and creamy hydrangeas. He had sent off a note to Brocket Hall, to his chief horticulturist. The man served him, and the Cecils and another landowner at some distance, and Melbourne reckoned he must have depleted the resources of all three to send back such a profusion of blooms.

He held a small leather-bound box, and gave it to Victoria with a sheepish grin.

"Just a bauble, my love. What does one give she who possesses the keys to the Tower? A simple thing, but I thought it might make you smile when I sketched it out in summer."

Victoria's dimples showed, and she beamed as she untied the satin ribbon wound about his gift. A small thing, really, nothing suitable for State functions.

"I love it!" Victoria gasped. She held the tiara and sobbed until her nose ran.

Melbourne took out his pocket square and wiped her face. It was a finely made piece, gold and silver melted down from some of his mother's old jewelry and a few heirloom stones. His personal income barely stretched to cover the expense of running Brocket Hall estate, and the small settlement he grudgingly accepted from the Crown estates went mostly to subsidize Melbourne Hall.

Filigree-work twisted into the shape of vines, with a few small emeralds hinting at greenery. Sapphires formed the central design, a star-flower crested with seed pearls taken from an old bauble. When he drew it, Melbourne visualized something that would represent their country refuge, the arbors and wildflowers and pond. Something the queen of the fairies might wear, Shakespeare's Tatiana.

"Do you?" Melbourne asked mildly, almost embarrassed by the humbleness of his offering.

Victoria thrust herself forward, into his arms, so he had no choice but embrace her openly.

"It's us, and Brocket Hall, and everything I love best in the world."

"Then I am glad, sweetheart, to give you some small measure of all the happiness you've given me. My cup overflows, with our happy news. Shall we tell Em at least, privately?"

Victoria tilted her head in the way she did, when scrutinizing him closely.

"You mean it!" she said wonderingly. "Of course, you may tell Em. And Palmerston, if you choose. She will tell him anyway, of course, so you might as well have the pleasure. Oh, and anyone else you would like to tell. _This_ time everything will go smoothly, I just know it. But first – will you tell the children? You have such a way of talking to them, knowing just what to say. Far better than I can…although I _am_ trying."

Just then a page announced new arrivals, the ladies and gentlemen on duty rotation in the Household. The Duchess of Kent followed, several paces behind, careful to set herself apart from lesser persons. Melbourne looked to Victoria for permission, and received it. He stood and bowed elegantly over his mother-in-law's hand.

"Duchess," he said smoothly. "It's a lovely evening. Would you care to step out and admire the leaves changing color in the Park?"

He gave her his arm and walked her toward the double French doors which opened onto the portico. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Victoria lift her chin in a gesture of acknowledgement and approval. Telling Victoire she was to be a grandmother again, and this time to his _legitimate_ heir, would be the first of many such announcements to come, and one he would savor more than most of those to follow. A rush of sentiment moistened his eyes, one thought overriding all others. _Life is sweet._

 


End file.
